


ex libris

by TheMalacoda



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: A thirst not even Gatorade can quench, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bibliomancy, Bisexual Characters, Dream Sex, F/M, Galdr, I blame all of you for this hot mess, I'm feeding myself as usual but feel free to read it, Librarians, Libraries, Local woman pretends to know a damn thing about Latin: News at 11, Making out in the stacks, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Powered by my shit taste in music, Ritual Sex, Roman Empire and Ancient Greek influences and feels, Slow Burn, Tarot, There is actual librarianship in here so look tf out, They say fuck a lot and I ain't even sorry, Ya I know I tagged it Explicit but I also said slow burn it'll get there just work with me ok?, magick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27608638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalacoda/pseuds/TheMalacoda
Summary: The city of Revenant’s Toll is located within the province of Mor Dhona and in many ways, it is the heart and soul of Eorzea. In much the same way that the great city of learning, Sharlayan, exists in service to the esteemed center of knowledge located there, so too does Revenant’s Toll owe its continued growth to the Great Library of the Crystal Tower.A great deal of the tower itself remains shrouded in mystery including its sudden appearance some two thousand years ago, which has never been satisfactorily explained. However, it can be stated with no hyperbole that without the many sources of wisdom and magick that have been uncovered within, Eorzea would not be the peaceful and prosperous nation it is today.We are much indebted to the brave men and women who toil within its crystalline walls, keeping us safe from the unknown dangers that lurk inside even as they labor to expose long forgotten truths and information for the betterment of all Hydaelyn.Latest:[II/Antistita] - part 3 | prior amator- In which Raha learns a great deal about Stel's questionable taste in men—and his own.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 100
Kudos: 61





	1. prologue - pax eorzeana seculo seculorum

**SEARCH:** eorzean history

  
  
  


**\--RESULTS--**

  
  
  


**RESULT #1**

  
  


TITLE:  _ A Brief History of Eorzea: Revenant’s Toll & The Great Library of the Crystal Tower _

  
  


CREATOR:  _ Edmont de Fortemps, Count _

  
  


SAMPLE:

The city of Revenant’s Toll is located within the province of Mor Dhona and in many ways, it is the heart and soul of Eorzea. In much the same way that the great city of learning, Sharlayan, exists in service to the esteemed center of knowledge located there, so too does Revenant’s Toll owe its continued growth to the Great Library of the Crystal Tower.

A great deal of the tower itself remains shrouded in mystery including its sudden appearance some two thousand years ago, which has never been satisfactorily explained. However, it can be stated with no hyperbole that without the many sources of wisdom and magic that have been uncovered within, Eorzea would not be the peaceful and prosperous nation it is today.

We are much indebted to the brave men and women who toil within its crystalline walls, keeping us safe from the unknown dangers that lurk inside even as they labor to expose long forgotten truths and information for the betterment of all Hydaelyn.

  
  


SUBJECT HEADINGS:

Revenant’s Toll (Mor Dhona)--History--Pre Pax Eorzeana to 2019 PE.

Eorzea--History--Pre Pax Eorzeana to 2019 PE.

Library of the Crystal Tower--History.

Pax Eorzeana--History.

  
  


ENCHANTMENTS: 

General mold resistance.

General pest resistance.

  
  


PERSONALITY: 

Easy going, seems to enjoy being circulated and read. Has not demonstrated a propensity to biting or snapping. Amenable to gentle petting along the spine. -- KMB ad XII Kal. 5th UM 2019 PE.

  
  


RESTRICTIONS: 

None.

  
  


LOCATION:

Adult Collection - Level 31, Range 57, Shelf 10

GLCT Control Number 5347-38279-340287

  
  
  
  
  


_ Please ask our friendly staff if you need reference assistance! _


	2. [0/Scurra] - part 1 | ex parte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scurra recto - innocence, new beginnings, free spirit

Stelmaria Molkot knew what G’raha Tia wanted the second he appeared in the workroom. His scarlet ears seem tense and he is balancing a full mug of coffee with both hands--creamed and sugared in exactly the way she preferred it.

“I would like to survey one of the higher floors tonight, if you’re ok with that?” he begins without preamble, carmine eyes inscrutable as he sets the drink next to her terminal. Within easy reach of her hand.

In contrast to his eyes, the rest of him is unusually impatient. He perches on the only corner of her desk that is not buried under leatherbound journals of her own magickal shorthand, green sprigs of oak, ash, and thorn, a haphazard pile of the half dozen tomes she had recently persuaded to remain quiescent (so they could be cataloged), her current favorite deck of tarot cards, and many other oddments besides. 

The detritus of an overworked and underpaid bibliomancer. 

_ Black skinny jeans today, _ she muses as her purple and black gaze runs over him briefly,  _ gods be good.  _

In addition to the distractingly tight jeans, there is a form-hugging black Primals 2010 world tour t-shirt under a long-sleeved cardigan of heather grey, red high top sneakers, and the redolent scent of cinnamon spice that always seems to cling to him.

_ Looking is still free and legal, at least-- _ and look she did. Determined to enjoy this little respite this morning for what it was.

She lifts the fresh coffee to her face and sniffs at it delicately to discover that, as usual, it is ambrosia straight from Olympus. G’raha is the only soul in the place, save chief engineer Cid nan Garlond, who could make a decent cup of brew--everyone else prefers tea. It certainly didn’t hurt that he had a good head for pointless details, for example how she took her coffee, thereby ensuring that when he tried to bribe her like this he did an excellent job of it.

Too bad that she fully intended to make him sweat a little.

Ignoring his question she asks one of her own, her heart shaped countenance the picture of innocence--except for the one visible fang and mischievously curling tail, “How was story time today? I haven’t seen you since half past the tenth bell this morning and it’s after lunchtime now. Looked like a big crowd… Lots of new faces?”

With her eyes closed she takes an exaggerated sip, and pretends that she does not hear his russet tail disturbing the small loose items on her desk as it swishes back and forth in annoyance. He is acting very odd today. 

“Story time was fine, I suppose-- _ Just look will you?” _ and his words rise into a tense hiss.

In her mind’s eye she imagines him surreptitiously pulling back the sleeve of his cardigan to show her a new slash of azure crystal marring the intricate linework of one of his many arcane tattoos. Generally, that was how he knew that they needed to resolve some issue in the tower--a nonverbal message from the mysterious entity he was inextricably tied to.

However, her eyes snap open to discover that her daydreams are very wrong indeed: his strained face is slightly pink as he lifts the hem of his shirt with one hand. Just enough so that she can see a fresh seam of brilliant blue climbing the ladder of his pale ribs. While she gazes with interest at the disfiguring crystal, he glances quickly across the room to be sure that no one else has observed this moment of disclosure between them. 

She finds his caution mildly unsettling. They had been seen speaking together at one or the other of their desks by their coworkers many times before this and he had never been so jumpy. The others seemed to expect them to enjoy a natural rapport, seeing as they were two of the three total miqo’te on staff.  _ Naturally, he must be feeling vulnerable with that crystal on his skin, _ she decides.

“Hmph,” she huffs noncommittally, averting her eyes to replace her mug and running a hand over her messy bun. It is releasing long heliotrope tendrils into her face with a will that feels almost malicious. Again. 

Truthfully she is more than a little alarmed for him. In the two moons they had spent climbing the Tower ever higher, she had not seen a patch so large manifest on him--and she had seen quite a few by now.

“It’ll go away when we solve the problem,” she says confidently, relenting for the sake of his nerves.

“I take it you’re available then?” he asks under his breath, dropping his shirt again and pulling his heavy reading glasses up by the strap around his neck to settle them on his nose. Obviously, intending to look as though he is perusing the open tome on her desk.

She would have barked a laugh had he not been so anxious--she was  _ always _ available. If she was not here working she was in her apartment, eating crusts of bread and drinking water from the faucet to make sure she had enough gil for next moon’s rent.

“Yes,” she decides to spare him the details and settles for taking one last swipe at her bangs before writing the whole job off as a lost cause.

“Midnight bell then. The usual place. You should probably wear your armor... I have a bad feeling,” he remarks shortly, nodding at her and chewing his bottom lip as he rises to go to his own desk. 

His ears and tail are uncharacteristically low, and have none of their usual bounce or sway.

Between her mountain of tasks and his many afternoon programs, she does not see him again for the rest of the day.

* * *

Just before half past the eleventh bell of the evening the library is quiet and peaceful--a great contrast to its daytime bustle. Shelves upon shelves of books are resting placidly in neatly organized rows as far as the eye can see in every direction, each shelf a full twenty fulms in height. Yet more shelves line the walls from the floor until just under the faintly glowing ceiling at thirty fulms. 

The floor above was much the same and the floor above that--some fifty levels all told until you reached the restricted section and needed a special pass etched magically onto your skin to enter. Another fifty levels of restricted space brought you to floors that even Restricted Section Chief Matoya and her deputy Urianger Augurelt, truly gifted adepts in their arcane arts, feared to tread alone.

The forbidden levels--properly called the  _ Index Librorum Prohibitorum, _ or the Prohibitorum for short--were floors uncleared, unmapped, and largely unseen, save by large parties of armed and armored librarians led by at least one trained bibliomancer. Normally, this would be Head Bibliomancer Y’shtola Rhul or the deputy Krile Mayer Baldesion and the party would be gathered from librarians of substance from every library department.

As a telling mark of how unofficial and unsanctioned these nighttime excursions are, they are led by the newly promoted First Assistant Bibliomancer, Stelmaria Molkot. The party of esteemed librarians she escorts this particular evening is composed solely of the freshly hired head of the Children’s Department--G’raha Tia. 

At first, she had been worried he would be a hindrance but she was glad to discover that he could more than hold his own. As a duo they were easily comparable to a party four times their size. To be fair, his connection with the tower gave him powers she couldn’t even comprehend, much less use herself--but that was only to be expected. Her own abilities, by no means insubstantial, fairly paled in comparison.

Until she began taking these late night jaunts with G’raha she had spent practically no time at all in the library after closing. She was there for her shift only and not one moment longer during the whole five years she had worked there--she had wanted to go home to be with her boyfriend. Now, she found these late night bells to be her favorites, filled with a serenity that she can’t get anywhere else.

The door to the Restricted Section’s break room opens behind her with a creak. As she is halfway through changing into her armor, she does not turn to look, knowing from experience and scent that it is only G’raha arriving to join her. Though she is amused when he closes the door again quickly after seeing her bare back.

“Just come in G’raha, a little nudity never hurt anyone,” she jauntily calls to him.

“I’d rather not,” he deadpans. His discomfort is noticeable even as muffled as he is through the door.

She laughs, ears flung back in mirth, as she settles the lightweight black leather bodysuit into place before adjusting the built in scaled steel plates across chest, shins, and forearms. It had been made especially for her, fitting perfectly once buckled tightly to her four fulm and eleven ilm frame and covered every bit of skin from chin to ankles. Except for her hands of course--she needed those for spellcasting.

Next came the sturdy black boots, laced up the front, and the sleeveless, high collared knee-length duster in a brilliant blood red--the only outward sign of her rank as First Assistant. She wore it open, rather than buttoned, and cinched it at the waist with her sword belt. The customary small pouch on the opposite side of her rapier contained a smattering of small items frequently used in the bibliomancer’s art: herbs, chalk, warded salt, cold iron, incense, and clockwork lighter as well as her own necessities of pendulum, cards, and coins. Her eyeglasses were snapped into a protective case and pocketed before strapping on goggles with prescription lenses, but she did not raise the hood of her duster over her hair. She did not think it would prove necessary this evening.

Finally her armor was on, and she was ready.

She opened the door to the attached reading room to find G’raha lounging at a table, still wearing his work clothes and sneakers. Torn between annoyance and amusement she asks, “Do I have to wear my armor because you refuse to wear any at all or...?”

He stands, mouth open to retort before going pale and leaning heavily on the ornate staff he always carried on these forays. The top end is large and made of gold or something similar, all right angles centered around what looks like a moonstone. Insatiably curious, she had of course asked for the details of its construction and purpose, but he had told her simply that it was a key and left it at that. It did look like one, if nothing else.

If it had been any other person she would have gone to them and offered herself for support, but she had been made aware that he did not like to be touched and she tries to respect that. She did not really understand, being a physically affectionate person, but she could respect it. 

Still, she is a little sorry she had been teasing him--just until he recovers enough to speak of course, ears flat and tail whipping, “It makes me feel slow and dull. I don’t like it, and no matter how much you complain I won’t wear it unless I’m in a sanctioned raiding party with someone more official than you who tells me to put it on.”

“Are you feeling ok? You are awfully grumpy,” she is definitely irritated now too and is sure he can see it in the flattening of her ears and swishing of her own tail. But turnabout is fair play and she had been baiting him.

“Yes, sorry,” his face and ears relax as he smiles, a little conciliatory, but it doesn’t reach his unusually brilliant ruby eyes, “It has been a long day and this new mark is… I’ve been feeling off. Like I’m coming down with something. This has never happened before.”

He sighs as he rubs his ribs over the new crystal patch, eyes clouded and brows knit in consternation.

“Then let’s fix it,” she says brightly, remembering again that the cards had told her to help him and schooling her body accordingly into a posture of patience, “Where are we going?”


	3. [0/Scurra] - part 2 | obscuris vera involvens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scurra verso - recklessness, taken advantage of, inconsideration
> 
> Bit of a flashback.

She found it very easy indeed to look at G’raha Tia, the library’s new head of children’s services.

At one point not long after he joined the staff, Stelmaria Molkot had heard a gaggle of young twenty-something library pages describe him as  _ “ridiculously gorgeous,” _ and she quite had to agree: long copper hair in a neat braid, perfect pale skin with freckles across his nose and cheeks, vertically pupiled eyes the color of precious rubies, a scar splitting his left eyebrow, and a sinfully full mouth on a face tailor made for trouble. 

He was an excellent librarian too: competent with magick, patient with children of all ages, a wonderful storyteller, a good problem solver, and possessed of a rare head for details. Pity he had gone into children’s services and not bibliomancy like she had, she would have liked very much to have more excuses to work with him.

Exactly her type.

Needless to say, she had been absolutely hopelessly attracted to the man since his first day at the Great Library of the Crystal Tower some three moons ago. 

Sadly, it looked like it would be forever unrequited--he is gay, because of course he is. The gods do love their little jokes. 

Discovering his personal preferences had not been among her proudest moments. She had decided many years ago now that using her non work related abilities to learn about others was to be avoided whenever possible. No matter how irritating it was to be in the dark about someone, it was vastly preferable to have them tell her freely what they would like for her to know. It was infinitely more respectful that way, and all good relationships are built on trust and respect.

But the temptation was still there.

He had taken a private phone call at his desk. At the time they had been the only two people in the workroom. Apparently, he had not realized she was there at all because his voice quickly became rather heated while the male timbre on the other end raised itself to match in both volume and ferocity. She felt trapped, and even more awkward than usual--not knowing whether to leave or make a noise--when he got up and stalked out of the room anyway, his MooglePhone pressed to his ear and carmine eyes sparking with emotions she understood all too well.

She had shamefully given in to the need to read her tarot cards then, as it was the easiest way to get detailed answers. Curiosity is, without a doubt, one of her largest foibles.  _ Who was he talking to on the phone? _

The two of cups was the reply: two grinning skulls enraptured with each other and crowned with thorny roses. One skull was marked with a crescent moon on its forehead, the other a sun. The golden ring behind them is solid and eternal. However, the card was reversed. _ A relationship broken from mistrust. _

He had returned to the workroom then, and met her eyes accidentally. Thankfully, the flush of embarrassment that had crept up her features seemed to escape his notice, but she did not miss the anxiety and grief on his face. It had not been necessary for her to consult her cards further to know that  _ they _ simply weren't going to happen. 

_ Fair enough, _ she thought,  _ that’s what you get for sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong. _

After her regretful discovery about his orientation, she had resolved to leave his privacy intact. She kept the information to herself and resumed wallowing in her own nasty breakup, and other myriad issues besides--thirty summers under her belt, dreadfully single, eternally broke, and living in an apartment she can’t afford.

Then she noticed he had developed some new habits that were a bit strange even amongst librarians, who tended to be a rather offbeat bunch: he began showing up to work looking like he had not slept in days, sometimes sporting strangely half-healed bruises and cuts on his face and neck, never seeming to eat or drink, shying away from even friendly handshakes (which he had not seemed to mind before), and worst of all--to her at least--some of  _ her  _ bibliomancy reference books had gone missing only for them to mysteriously turn up on his desk. 

By her reckoning, borrowing her books without permission made it officially her problem. 

Now she felt fully justified in asking the cards, and her mind settled easily into the partially meditative state required to connect with an omniscient truth greater than herself. She was alone in her apartment for the evening, as usual, and she could finally take her time to get to the bottom of this mystery.  _ What is he hiding? _

A three card pull--more cards tended to get more information. 

The ten of wands: A starry sky blocked by nine long tendrils of amaltas flowers, overshadowing a single fallen brother.  _ A heavy burden. _

The four of wands, reversed: Four proud chrysanthemum blossoms bunched tightly together as though celebrating in joy.  _ Family problems. _

The hermit, also reversed: A robed skeleton sits alone in contemplation, a golden lantern shining brightly from the top of the pole resting against his shoulder.  _ Isolation, loneliness, alienation, lost in the weeds. _

She drew two more cards, feeling more than just a tad lost herself.  _ What burden do you mean, exactly? _

_ The tower. _ Golden lightning strikes a beautiful tower, causing the cupola to crumble in the face of the onslaught. Instinctively, she knows that the cards are referring to the tower itself and not the usual esoteric meaning. Her heartbeat speeds up, thumping wildly against her ribs. The actual tower _ \--the library. _

The three of rings: Three circles of gold interlinked, one centered by a hand over a single poppy bloom.  _ Help him. _

Thus did Stelmaria learn the truth via her magicks: he was the scion of an ancient and powerful family that despised him, but needed him for his genetic connection to the tower. A parasitic connection that allowed him to keep its power in check even as it placed limits on him. Further, she had learned that he couldn’t do it alone.

_ Well that tears it.  _ She was going to have to call in an authority.

She turns her nightstand nearly upside down looking for her AhrimanPhone, which is precisely where she left it: the charger. Familiar numbers are dialed while she tries to get comfortable on her bed, scattering tarot cards every which way and pulling a weighted blanket all the way up over her head to block out all light.

The phone rings once, twice, and a third time before a male voice grouses on the other end of the line, “What is it now, Marmar? Lamitt and I are getting ready for bed.”

“Sorry Bertie, I lost track of things. Should I call you back tomorrow?” She hopes quite fervently that her brother will find the time to speak with her now, even though it makes her feel guilty for keeping him from his wife at such a late bell.

There is a low muttering followed by a higher toned noise of assent and the sound of a gently closing door, “Nah. Must be important for you to call so late. Tell me what’s bothering you before it blows up in your face.”

The laughter that bubbles up in her throat is slightly hysterical, and she has to take several gasping breaths before launching into an abbreviated rundown of her discoveries about G’raha Tia: both mundane and magickal. Anyone else would call her insane, or discount her findings out of hand, but not her brother.

“So your weird truth power--” he begins.

“Alethiomancy.”

“Right that thing--told you that this kid controls the whole damn tower? And his family forced him to do it knowing that it could fucking kill him by turning him into crystal? And they don't care?” Her heart swells with love for him at the sheer indignity in his tone. Ardbert never did care for unjust situations, whether he knew the sufferers personally or not. For their whole lives he had always been the one ready to step in and start handing people their asses though his marriage last summer to his long time girlfriend had softened him somewhat.

But not that much. He was going to be a wonderful dad when the time came.

“Bertie he isn’t a kid, he’s your age. In his thirties,” she corrects again.

“That’s just details, Mar. My point is they’re mistreating him and he’s just taking it.”

“I don’t think he has a lot of choice in the matter, but I’m only guessing. You know my alethiomancy isn’t all that precise…” and that was the truth. Sometimes the meanings are as clear as reading a book. At other times, it’s like finding your way through a fog while blindfolded.

“Sounds like he’s getting screwed to me. Honestly I feel bad for him, I really do,” he sighs wearily, “You said the cards told you to help him? I have to agree.”

“Trouble with that is…. I’d have to tell him what I know and how I know it.” She burrows deeper into her blanket, like a small furry creature trying to hide from a predator. Not that it would help. She knew better than most that there is no escape from the truth.

“Ah there it is. The real reason you called. You’re not sure you should tell a total stranger something so personal--something that until this point you only shared with me.”

She is quiet. Waiting for the axe to fall.

“Yea I thought that might be where this was going. Look, you owe it to him to tell him the truth. Especially if the cards told you to do it--fucking with the Norns would be a bad idea.”

_ Shit. The Norns. _

Her personal faith was in the old gods of the miqo’te: Zeus, his brothers, and the other Olympians. Arbert’s faith was the faith of Ishgard, where they had grown up as adopted children of House Fortemps: Ođinn, Þor, Freyr and the other wild Asgardian gods of battle and fertility. She kept hearth for Hela, but otherwise only dabbled in the Ishgardian religion--preferring to stick with paying cultus to Artemis and Persephone. 

However, she knew full well that the concept of a fate woven by the Norns was not to be trifled with.

Swallowing nervously in the total darkness and surrounded by her own stale air, she focuses on her brother’s words. Each one blooming a new fear in her chest, “The way I see it, you took this secret from him and the only way to even the scales out is to give him one of yours.”

“Alethiomancy,” she groans.

“Exactly, you gotta tell him what you can do. Offer to help him out with this mess at the same time; maybe it’ll soften him up enough to keep him from getting pissed off at you for rooting around in his business like a qiqirn looking for junk to sell.”

“That’s the dream, bro,” she sighs heavily, suddenly exhausted.

“I have faith in you Marmar. For real though, when he starts giving you a piece of his mind dial me up and just leave your phone in your pocket so I can hear ok? It’s my favorite thing when people bust your chops for a change.”

“I love you, but go fuck yourself Ardbert.”

His absolutely shameless laughter comes tumbling out of her phone even as she hangs up on him.


	4. [0/Scurra] - part 3 | in medias res

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scurra verso - recklessness, taken advantage of, inconsideration
> 
> I heard you guys like sexual tension. Anyway back to the adventure!

On the one hundred and second level they discover a coeurl.

A living, breathing coeurl, whose very presence has upset every tome in a twenty yalm radius. 

Upset books tend to leak magick profusely, rustling their pages and snapping their covers at each other like penned hens during feeding time. Agitated books agitate other books, causing a chain reaction and throwing off the whole carefully maintained atmosphere of calm that they usually preferred. A large enough number of riled up books could leave the whole library a smoking crater within a couple of suns if left unchecked.

It was not yet an out of control situation, but it was most definitely headed in that direction. 

The very air itself tasted of unfettered magick: metal grown hot from a current passing through it, bright and stinging on the back of the tongue. Most people felt a vague nausea and an inability to focus when exposed to so much excess aether, but as librarians they were made of far sterner stuff.

“Not good,” she remarked calmly to G’raha as they crouched behind an ancient desk, out of the eyesight of the beast prowling between the tall vertical stacks. A grim parody of the forested habitat where it hunted naturally.

This particular level is unlit, save for a steady blue glow from the walls and ceiling. The strange azure half light had taken their eyes some time to adjust to. She was faster of course, as a Keeper of the Moon and devotee of Artemis she was naturally adapted to hunting in the near dark. It took him only a little longer: while Seekers of the Sun were made for their daytime revels dedicated to Apollo, it was still easier for him to acclimate to the gloom as a miqo'te of either tribe than if he had been born a hyur or roegadyn.

Of course, if he had been born a hyur or roegadyn he would not be here at all--yoked to the tower by a loss in the genetic lottery.

“No, not good at all,” he agreed softly, and even in the soft glow she found he looked a lot better than he had when they rendezvoused in the lower levels. Alert, rather than distracted, and a bit of color in his face.

She would have thought that the suffering of the tower would wear him down further the longer it went on unresolved. Either he was possessed of great reserves of inner strength or his current proximity to the problem, and therefore a solution, abated the symptoms somewhat. In the moons she had spent attempting to help him fulfill his calling by getting into outlandish scrapes of varying intensity, she knew enough at this point to decide that it was probably both.

“Do you have a plan?” his scarlet eyes are on her then, shining in the gloom. Although he is a department head, a full two summers older, and the tower is technically his responsibility… He quite readily admits that she has the greater depth of experience here.

Her cheeks prickle into a flush under his gaze and she turns her head away to obscure it, “Usually living creatures are magickally sealed behind doors. Are there any open ones nearby? If we can find where it escaped from, maybe we can stuff it back inside and seal it up again?” 

She is getting quite good at projecting a level of confidence she doesn't feel.

For a mercy, if he is aware of her hesitancy it doesn’t show. 

His eyes slide shut and his face relaxes, however his tail flicks back and forth at the tip, betraying an exertion of the mind rather than one of the body. She can feel yet more magick emanate from him, though it is of a different quality than what is already saturating the area--ordered, purposeful, and subtle. Equivalent to catching a hint of some complex perfume left behind when someone unseen crosses a room before you do.

Unfortunately, the stalking coeurl also picks up the scent of blossoming magicks, and Stelmaria has barely enough time to drag her companion to his feet and shove him roughly down the nearest stacks ahead of her before the beast is upon them with a wild ferocity born of what is no doubt desperate confusion.

Generally speaking, it is considered very rude to interrupt someone’s spellcasting by moving them bodily. It can leave them feeling irritable and slightly hungover. Additionally, she knew that he was not a fan of being touched; a grim reminder that his body is an extension of the tower and no longer really his.

This is no time to worry about manners.

“Fucking Apollo!” His scarlet eyes go wide as, running in a dead sprint, he looks over his shoulder to see the huge coeurl, nearly five fulms at the withers, gaining on them quickly and just missing sinking its teeth into Stelmaria by mere ilms.

Unfortunately, one charged whisker connects solidly with her armored left forearm, stunning her momentarily. Pain flashing across her features at the jolt, she stumbles close enough to propel him forcibly again toward a miraculously appearing door up ahead--clearly visible by the fact that it doesn’t glow the way the walls do. 

“Get in the closet!” she manages through grinding teeth.

Frantic, he waves his staff, silently praying that the door will swing open without any further prompting. When it does he falls directly into it without hesitation, with Stelmaria crashing ungracefully down on top of him only a moment later. He manages to maneuver himself out from under his companion enough to kick the door closed on a snarling open mouth filled with hot breath and an uncomfortably large number of long, white teeth. Another swift motion of the staff in some esoteric pattern locks the door, but the knob begins to hum and sizzle much to their joint dismay. 

The beast is apparently smart enough to try the handle.

Stelmaria rises slowly, stiffly, fangs visible in a wince as she checks her left arm with probing fingers in the same dim blue glow as the room they left behind.  _ Burned and bitten, damn it, but at least the bite will only bruise,  _ she thinks and reaches for the pouch at her waist to see what she will be able to do about it. The bare minimum most likely--she was no great healer. Any spell of that school she tried to cast would work so gradually as to be a waste of energy. 

Considering their current situation it was better to just take some herbs and let it heal naturally, even if it made her a bit slow. The willow bark capsules in her mouth are bitter, and she has to swallow them dry, causing the unpleasant sensation of a lump in her throat to linger long after the pills finally go down.

“Shit. He got his teeth on you didn’t he?” He is still sitting on the floor and watching her try to care for herself, russet ears rotated in her direction. The concerned look on his handsome face is evident even in the gloom. It makes her stomach feel pleasantly wrong. 

_ Eros and Aphrodite are playing their little game again. _ Vaguely, and not for the first time, she wonders what on Hydaelyn she could have possibly done to deserve this ridiculously pointless one-sided attraction to a gay man. Her one good hand tries to smooth her hair, an exercise in futility with her bun coming loose for possibly the tenth time today. 

“She,” she corrects him automatically, “And yes--then she shocked me half out of my skull for fun as well--but never mind that. Did you manage to find the door?” She does not explain how she simply knows that the beast is female, and he does not ask.

Hoping to distract herself from thoughts of romance and vengeful gods, she starts to pace the small room: unconsciously mirroring the coeurl on the other side of the door. The closet is no larger than two public bathroom stalls put together, so her pacing is simply turning in circles like a cat chasing its own tail. The waves of fear rolling off the stalking animal outside is beginning to bleed into her mind as well, secondhand adrenaline magnifying every sensation to nearly unbearable levels of discomfort. 

“Yep, I found it. Conveniently close to this one, which I’m pretty sure didn’t even exist before I had a need for it. Now please sit down and let me heal you,” he seems faintly amused, the azure twilight nearly but not quite concealing the shadow of a smile around his eyes.

Ears warming in embarrassment, she ignores his perfectly reasonable request in favor of acting on her annoyance, “Good. We can leave when she stops pacing around outside and  _ electrifying the godsdamned doorknob.” _ Stelmaria aims a savage kick at the offending portal and, feeling a little bit childish, rolls her eyes at the answering growl from the opposite side. Just because she sympathizes greatly with the large cat, it doesn’t mean she can’t feel indignant at her own lot too.

There is a single thwap of his tail against the floor before he gives a long-suffering sigh and adopts the no nonsense tone he has had to use with wild children and unreasonable parents every day of his library career, “She won’t back off if you don’t stop antagonizing her. Come over here, sit down, and let me heal you. Don’t make me ask again or I’ll sing that song you hate about the wheels on the bus.”

“I--I have to take my armor part of the way off for you to get to it,” she manages uncomfortably, thankful for the darkness as she feels that godsdamned blush creeping steadily up her chest again and onto her throat and cheeks.  _ A four-fold curse upon the house of Olympus. _

His ears jerk back as he laughs with wild abandon, looking distressingly attractive and causing the coeurl outside to yowl in a towering rage. Obviously it was fine for him to ruffle the beast, but not for her to do the same, “A little nudity never hurt anyone, Stelmaria.”

“Smart ass,” she snaps--the bastard was enjoying this. Throwing her off kilter is rapidly becoming one of his favorite pastimes.

She ignores his wide grin to remove her sword belt and shrug painfully out of her duster, before finally flopping petulantly onto the floor in front of him like a toddler being put in time-out. She tries, and fails, to reach with her good arm for the buckles and ties behind her neck. He gives another musical laugh in that hypnotic story teller’s voice as he moves her fingers gently out of the way, “I’ll get it.”

With one motion of his fingers, her back is exposed to the cool air. He does not help her push her armor down to bare her shoulder, nor does he assist in drawing her arm out of her sleeve. She finds that she is very glad indeed for small mercies: she might have spontaneously combusted if he had tried. 

It is a struggle to relax the angle of her ears and silence the gods awful clamoring of her nerves. Already she can feel her pulse racing wildly at her neck and wrists, echoing so loudly in her head that she is sure he must be able to hear it. With care, she secures her tail tightly over her thigh to be sure it will not brush him accidentally, her right arm holding her armor to her chest in a bid to preserve her modesty while her heart beats a rapid rhythm against her ribs.

If only he would put his mouth on her skin, already heated from her armor and his proximity. She dreamed of his lips frequently, so much so that it was becoming a bit of a kink. How heavenly it would be, to be touched in that way by someone who wanted her--maybe even loved her. She hadn’t been touched like that in moons and it was becoming obvious to her that she was fairly starving for affection. 

But he won’t touch her in that way. Will never… He was what he was, just as she couldn’t help her instinctive desire, but it felt wrong to have feelings like these for someone who couldn’t reciprocate. 

It doesn’t hurt anything or anyone to just keep it bottled up inside, save her of course. But it was far better to hurt herself than to put him in a position where he had to let her down, whether gently or otherwise. In any case, there was enough on his plate without her giddy hormone-addled infatuation ruining the friendship blossoming between them.

Centered behind her there is another shift in the air, power drawing inward along with the corresponding scent of tightly controlled magick mixed with his usual cinnamon. His hand, large and warm, moves slowly across the burns and bruising on her forearm, taking away the discomfort and leaving only a cooling tingle in its wake. The little of his arm that she can see is glowing faintly under the cardigan sleeve--arcane tattoos burning blue with the energy of the tower. 

It was only a simple magick so the light was easy to miss, but she welcomed the distraction and found herself wondering what it would look like if he ever worked a much larger and more difficult spell. How bright could they get? Would they burn him? Or his clothes? Could they burn her? Regular arcane flames didn’t really burn but his magick is an unknown quantity due to his reliance on the tower. It was certainly not outside of the realm of possibility.

“Did that help?” The gentle question is accompanied by the slightest pressure of his breath across her fevered skin, jolting her pleasantly from her reverie.

She responds by moving quickly away to don her armor, blushing madly yet again as blood rushes in her ears, “Yes. Thank you.” 

Physical and mental armor blessedly replaced, the room is quiet. 

So is the coeurl outside. She confirms it by pressing her ear to the door, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword.

He joins her in a heartbeat, “I’m ready.”

The coeurl could be right outside waiting patiently for all they know, “OK, but we need a plan or we’re just going to get cornered again. What have you got on you?” she asks in a whisper.

The silhouette of his ears tilt quizzically as he mentally fumbles about for a moment, “Uhh... my staff?” 

She shakes her head before remembering that he can't see it, “Not helpful.” 

With a huff, he hands the aforementioned weapon to her so that he can turn his front pockets inside out, “Spare gil? Not what you’re looking for? Then I don’t have anything.”

There is a glimmer of his perfectly white teeth in the gloom as he smiles sheepishly, reaching a hand toward her for his weapon. However, there is a niggling sensation in her mind, a little like an itch you can’t quite satisfy--he  _ does _ actually have something useful, “What about your back pockets?” 

A low masculine grunt, “Nothing besides my MooglePhone?” but he humors her good-naturedly anyway by running his hands over his backside, as the sound of palms sliding over denim suggests.

Then his ears perk in surprise as he brings out a small book, maybe four by four ilms square, “Oh. That.” A chuckle and a sigh issue from his direction, “I meant to reshelve it earlier but I got distracted--caught some teenagers making out in a dark corner of level nine. Ah! To be so young and recklessly horny again.” 

She nearly throws his staff back at him in her haste to snatch the tome from his grip, causing him to muffle a hiss as he fumbles his heavy weapon and nearly drops it. Pointedly, she ignores his antics, pulling her lighter from her waist pouch and greedily opening the cover to see the title in the small circle of light:  _ The Teenie-Weeniest Little Wharf Rat. _

“Perfect. A distraction.” It is very difficult to whisper while feeling so gleeful, but she augments her words with an excited back and forth swishing of her tail.

Kneeling on the floor once more, she fishes a bit of chalk from her pouch and begins to sketch arcane symbols in a pattern resembling a seven pointed star. She would only have to expend a small amount of energy on a quick and easy summoning from this children’s book and it would give them exactly what they needed. Lighting a small cone of lavender incense in the very center of the star, she concentrates on the open tome in her hands in the same way she does when she reads the cards--a twilight consciousness--here but not here, seeing the room simultaneously with something beyond.

G’raha watches in fascination as the vapor rises between them and she slowly breathes out. Then in. Then out once more before the chalk lines run into purple fire and a small form begins to gather in the smoke, made of the mist but also of buzzing white energy: a twitching nose, bright eyes, soft ears, and tiny clever paws.

The form resolves into a shimmering spectral wharf rat, no longer than five ilms with the tail. It is looking at Stelmaria with what can only described as rapture on it’s pointed face--awaiting instruction.

No matter how many times he saw the process, it never got less strange to watch as an imitation of life took shape from the pages of a book. He had seen the spellwork of other bibliomancers before, in both this library and where he worked previously in Sharlayan, but something about the way her magick was cast and directed--the feeling as it flowed over his skin--was different than anything he had ever experienced. 

The rat steps gingerly onto her outstretched hand, and she lifts it to her face before speaking, “Hello dear one. How are you keeping?”

A tilt of her head and violet ears, as she hears a reply that only exists for her. The rat does not have enough power for him to hear as well. It is a very simple summoning.

She nods and runs a finger along the edge of one gossamer ear, which flutters charmingly at her touch just like a real one would, “Oh that’s lovely, my sweetest. Listen, do you think you can outrun the coeurl outside? Maybe lead her off somewhere but then quickly back in our direction? We could really use your help getting out of this closet.”

There is another silent communication from the magick rodent. The rat gets a second petting, closing its eyes in bliss. 

Stelmaria, now clearly visible in the soft white light from the rat in her hands, turns her mismatched eyes upward to G’raha and speaks, “They think they can lead her far enough away for us to get out and position ourselves in front of the other door. When Teenie comes back with the cat I will bait the coeurl towards the open portal and then quickly jump out of the way. You can seal the door.”

His tail fluffs up dramatically and he whispers almost a little too loudly at her recklessness, “Wait. What? How is that safe? ...For either of you?”

The concern would be touching, if it weren’t horribly misplaced. 

Nevertheless she reassures him in calm tones, her solidly black right eye nearly a void in the rodent’s light, “Teenie here will be just fine. Besides, I trust you--don’t you trust me yet? I can dive and run very fast, you know, it’ll be easy.”

She sets the rat back down on the floor and studiously avoids his eyes. 

He secures his mouth in a thin line, resolved to be just as stubborn as she is, “If you say so.” The butt of his staff snaps definitively against the floor and the door softly clicks open, just wide enough for Teenie to pass through unhindered.

It closes again just in time to muffle the sounds of the growling, yowling coeurl’s paws scrabbling wildly as she seeks purchase to take off after the rat. They both wince at an almighty crash--the unmistakable sound of books hitting the floor. Now there is another cleanup job of the normal kind awaiting them after this mess is dealt with.

The door swings open a second time, though G’raha does not move an ilm. Their eyes meet before they quickly leave the room as a pair then split up--him out into the stacks and she to the open portal nearby. 

She cannot see anything inside the blackness but there is a smell of forests and aether wafting past on a salty breeze. Again, she finds herself musing on how exactly the tower might work. Does the door connect to nothingness, or maybe another dimension? Perhaps an actual forest through some kind of wormhole? How? Why? If she asked G’raha, would he tell her? Does he even know himself?

Slipping Teenie’s book into her pouch before drawing her rapier, she puts her back against the yawning darkness. The magick worked into the metal of the blade at its forging comes alive at her touch, purple like her hair and left eye--indicative of her personal aether. 

Reaching for that semi-conscious state she uses to work, she can sense that Teenie is nearby. And so is the coeurl: the beast has caught Stelmaria’s scent and is stalking her now. Anticipating a real meal no doubt, and the big cat might get it too if G’raha is not ready yet.

A long low growl is the only warning before the coeurl launches herself at the bibliomancer, all ferocious claws and teeth.

“DUCK!” G’raha charges out from behind a nearby shelf, staff at the ready and tattoos glowing dully, magick pooled in him just waiting for an outlet.

She obeys instantly by throwing herself flat on the floor with a metallic clatter of armor and sword.

The coeurl yowls again but this time in sheer surprise as G’raha’s magick propels her jump unnaturally far; clearing Stelmaria’s prone form easily before rocketing onward into the darkness beyond, the open portal slamming closed with a deafening bang. 

Then both his hands are on his staff and he glows brightly--symbols crawling across his skin and leaving traces of blue fire in their wake, much clearer under the cardigan now than they were in the closet. His ears are pinned flat to his skull with the strain and even his eyes luminesce a faint red at the sheer amount of power he is hurling towards creating a seal.

It’s not enough.

The huge cat is slamming repeatedly into the door from the other side and G’raha can barely hold it closed, much less magickally seal it. He leans heavily forward on his staff, fighting to remain upright. Leaping to her feet, she rushes to join him, only hesitating for a moment before placing her dominant hand on his right shoulder and directing her will through him and beyond into the shuddering, splintering wooden barrier. 

At her touch he takes one hand from his staff to cover hers on his shoulder and stands up straight, tattoos glowing the brightest she has ever seen, before drawing a long shivering breath into his lungs to speak a single word,  _ “Sigillo.”  _

Even the puff of air from his lips has a weakly cerulean luster. With a flash, the seal settles over the door like a second azure skin. 

The light coming from him is extinguished immediately. The silence is deafening.

In the dark and quiet, a little phosphorescent nose peeks from behind an overturned desk. Stelmaria slides her hand out from under the calloused warmth of his palm and moves to check on Teenie, glad for a reason to stop touching her companion without having to discuss it. With her physical presence and reinforcing willpower gone, G’raha sinks bonelessly to the floor panting hard as though he has just run a marathon. The use of that kind of sealing magick is very draining, even without being in the questionable state he was in earlier that evening. It will be at least a few moments before they can restore the area to some kind of order; though the cat has been successfully sealed away, each individual book will still require soothing lest they whip themselves into a frenzy and cause more trouble.

She kisses the tiny construct on her palm with real affection before whispering in its ear,  _ “Libero, _ Teenie, and thank you,” and the rat vanishes--component parts dissolving back into fragrant smoke and glowing tendrils of energy.

“Do you need help getting up?” she asks, knowing he has been watching.

“Yes actually, I think I do,” he is much more composed now, his condition having been greatly improved by the respite on the floor and by the restoration of some semblance of order with the sealing of the coeurl. 

He reaches up for her from his position on the floor and she pulls him to his feet, narrowly avoiding getting bonked on the head by his staff. For just a fraction of a moment he leans gently against her, ruby eyes examining her face through his copper bangs as if searching for something. Pulse quickening, she holds his gaze but then he drops her hands and rights himself with a huff, “I can’t believe that worked. It was so stupid… Stupid things aren’t supposed to work so well.”

She must have been imagining that look. A trick of the omnipresent blue gloom on this level, surely.

“I tell myself that all the time, and yet here we are. My entire life is stitched together by stupid shit that worked out beautifully,” she deadpans, surprising him into a barking laugh.

A smile creeps onto her own features, but it is hidden from him as she bends to light a fresh cone of incense on a miraculously upright desk nearby. She finds that the books calm easier with a pleasant scent in the air, taking a mental note to make more when she has a chance. Running out would be an unpleasant experience for everyone involved--human and tome.

From the corner of her eye she catches him lifting his shirt, but because his back is to her that is all she can see--a lean expanse of pale skin just above the waistline of his jeans. With a will, she tears her eyes away, “How is your spot? Is it gone?”

“Gone,” he answers, and she feels as relieved as he sounds.

Several more moments pass as he shifts around behind her, working to soothe books on other shelves. “What did you do with the kids you caught?” she asks suddenly, busying herself while waiting for an answer by gently petting spines until the shelves stop rustling in agitation.

“I told them to go to the balcony two levels up, but that if I found out they weren’t keeping their hands above their waists I’d ban them for two weeks,” G’raha’s back is still to her, but she can hear the laughter coloring his tone as he bends to retrieve some books from the floor.

A good idea, and fair: some kids didn’t have anywhere else safe to indulge in their first romances. Yet something prickles at her, “The balcony on eleven? Where Alphinaud takes his breaks?”

“The very same,” a barely muffled chuckle, low and warm.

“Oh no. You’re going to get an earful tomorrow.”

“That’s the idea. He and Alisaie switched the sugar I keep for my coffee with salt the other day. They thought it was an absolute riot but frankly, I’m still pretty annoyed. In any case, it'll make me feel a little better about having to toss a whole mugful down the drain.”

She makes a sympathetic face before realizing he can’t see it--he is still picking up tomes off the floor and placing them back on shelves. “Ok. Alphinaud handled. What will you do to get back at Alisaie?”

“Nothing. She scares me,” the timbre of his voice is curiously bland.

Stelmaria turns fully to look at him now, agog, “Scared? You’re a grown ass 32 year old man; she’s 20 and a page. What can she possibly do to you?”

“She--I--You don’t want to know,” his scarlet ears are flat, his tail is low, and the angle of his shoulders is tense as he stares resolutely at his range of shelving.

All she can do is laugh heartily and turn back to her tomes, “Well come get me next time and I’ll protect you. Salt in your coffee is just cruel.”

He grunts in agreement and they work in a companionable silence for the next bell, soothing the ruffled pages of whole shelves of books at once, until finally the area is quiet again.

When he finishes tidying his half of the room, he sits heavily on the desk--directly on the small pile of gray incense ash, “I’m actually hungry for the first time today now that I’m not turning into rock candy anymore. I think I need to eat something before I pass out. I know Good King Moogle Mog’s sounds terrible, but that just makes it even more perfect for this time of night. Would you like to come with? I’m buying.”

The adrenaline has worn off for the both of them: he seems tired, stretching and yawning, and she needs a shower at a bare minimum before she feels human again. Additionally, a quick glance at the screen of her AhrimanPhone tells her that it is half past the third bell of the morning. She has to be at her desk no later than the eighth bell and for that matter, so does he.

But a big pile of greasy, salty fries and a milkshake with him, even if it does border uncomfortably on torture for her, does sound very appealing right now. And with her budget being what it was, she would have to be an idiot to turn down free food. “Alright, if you really want more of my terrible company.” 

He nods, crimson eyes warm, but grimaces at his various aches and pains as he gets up off the desk.

“Just let me change,” she turns to leave, before reconsidering and facing him again, “You sat in the ashes, by the way. Might want to brush off or all the drunks at Mog’s will be staring at your ass.”

“Godsdammit,” he mumbles as he swipes at the seat of his pants.

Her giggles echo in the huge space, bouncing freely between the stacks.


	5. Interlude I - ex libris vitae

**SEARCH:** bibliomancy

  
  
  


**\--RESULTS--**

  
  
  


**RESULT #1**

  
  


TITLE: _Bibliomancy for Dummies,_ **8th ED**

  
  


SAMPLE: 

Bibliomancy (lit. “book magick”) is best described as the art of drawing forth the dominant spirit of a tome via a medium (usually smoke) and imbuing it with a spark of the bibliomancer’s aether in order to create a  _ spiritus liber-- _ a semi-sentient creature capable of obeying commands.

This basic definition is, of course, heavily simplified as this book is meant primarily for those just beginning to find their feet in this distinguished art. However, for the purposes of illustrating the depth of the field we will give a short outline here of some of the more exciting feats of which you may be capable after sufficient study:

  * Control over multiple spiritus liber at once.
  * Modification of the spiritus liber after summoning.
  * Creation of a permanent, self-sustaining spiritus liber--commonly referred to as a _sending._
  * Allowance of more or less sentience to a spiritus liber as required.
  * Larger, and more complex spiritus liber with the assistance of multiple bibliomancers.
  * Use of multiple tomes to create a single hybridized spiritus liber.



Within the pages of this work, we have provided a short course to teach you all of the basics as well as an accompanying great number of tips and real world anecdotes where professional bibliomancers explain the use of their skills. This book also contains a digital component with video and audio, accessible via instructions located in the indices.

  
  


SUBJECT HEADINGS:

Bibliomancy.

Bibliomancy--Handbooks, manuals, etc.

Bibliomancy--Technique.

Bibliomancy--History.

  
  


ENCHANTMENTS:

General mold resistance.

General pest resistance.

  
  


PERSONALITY: 

Can get a little grumpy if you don’t pet it before picking it up. Otherwise even tempered and easy to use. -- SM ad IV Non. 3rd AM 2017 PE.

  
  


RESTRICTIONS: 

None.

  
  


LOCATION:

Adult Collection - Level 45, Range 32, Shelf 113

GLCT Control Number 6214-46739-438334

  
  
  
  
  


_ Please ask our friendly staff if you need reference assistance! _


	6. [I/Magus] - part 1 | nunc vero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magus recto - willpower, desire, creation, manifestation
> 
> Flashback again.

“Please tell me again how exactly you know things that I haven’t told another soul in this entire town, much less this library?” For being full of what Stelmaria is very sure is righteous fury, G’raha is quite even keeled--for now. If anything he seems more tired than angry, with shoulders slumped and tail low.

So long as he doesn’t start shouting she’s going to count it as a win.

“Alethiomancy?” she offers weakly.

“Yes. That. One more time,” he intones, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his ruby eyes.

She is very aware of his cinnamon scent and his warmth in the tiny supply closet. There is just barely enough room for the two of them to stand facing each other; the surrounding utilitarian metal shelving being covered with supplies for art programs (paint, brushes, glue, glitter, construction paper, etc.), plastic tubs filled with holiday decorations for staff parties, broken tea kettles, a half dozen partially used rolls of book tape, and an old fashioned dot matrix printer for making labels. 

A terrible place to have a discussion, yes, but the only one available where they wouldn’t be walked in on by a coworker looking to take a break or, gods forbid, a patron with a reference question.

“Well… It’s a thing I can do. A talent maybe, I guess you could say? Uh…” she trails off at his crimson stare fixing her again. The end of his tail is flicking back and forth too. A little thrill blooms in her chest at a sudden vision of him pouncing on her in a red blur, as though she is a small, delicious bird.

How ridiculous. He’s not an  _ actual  _ cat, like a coeurl or something equally dangerous. Cats can’t become librarians, much less wear combat boots and scarves.

“I sort of... concentrate on a question I need answered. Then I use cards mostly, though in a pinch I can do it by flipping a coin or with a pendulum, but the information is much less detailed. And  _ poof  _ there’s the answer! Like magick!” she finishes in a rush, throwing in some jazz hands in an attempt to head off his annoyance.

The joke rolls off his back like water off a duck, “Ok but what possessed you to ask… whatever question it was you asked?” 

“You borrowed my bibliomancy books without checking with me first,” she answers, matter-of-factly. As though that is the most important reason behind her prying, and therefore the most valid.

“Seriously?!” he hisses, eyes sparking afresh as his russet ears go flat and he bends slightly at the waist to loom with a bit of menace. Of course he’s bigger than her: almost everyone is except for Thancred’s kid Ryne, the Leveilleur twins, and the Lalafell squad.

Who would kill her in her sleep if they knew she called them the ‘Lalafell squad.’

“I mean, it’s the truth even if it’s dumb, and I already said I was sorry,” she pleads, trying to make her eyes look big and innocent and maybe a even little moist from his angle, “Anyway, some of it was honestly just intuition. And it worked out didn’t it? I learned your secret, yea, but you got my secret in return. Plus, now I can help you police the tower anytime you need me.”

_ ‘Anytime you need me.’ Ugh how desperate... _

He seems to be turning it over in his mind carefully, lips pursed, and she feels like the opportunity to work with him is slipping through her fingers like rivulets of sand. She panics a little bit--just a little.

“I can prove it to you! Ask me a question that only you know the answer to,” she blurts, already pulling out her cards. 

Only to regret it immediately when his face splits in a wicked grin, “Any other rules? How many questions do I get?”

“Just one. We have to get back to work or they’ll come looking for us. I mean, do you really want, like, Y’shtola to discover us crammed into a supply closet together when I’m supposed to be cataloging and you need to be planning programs?”

“Good point,” he concedes, “Alright then. Wow me: what did I want to be when I grew up?”

The intimacy of the question startles her--she was expecting something much lighter, especially after the grinning. Perhaps, “What did I have for breakfast?” or “What did I watch on TV last night?”, nothing so deeply personal. No matter how much she wished things were different they were basically strangers and she seriously doubted that would be changing in a hurry.

Still  _ maybe, _ just maybe, she realizes, he’s trying to put himself out there because he could really use the support of a friend. Even if it is support of the bumbling variety, as hers would be.

She shuffles quickly and cuts the cards nine times, mentally reaching for the edge of her consciousness. His nearness and her anxiety fade away, leaving just the question to shine in her mind. Its light guides her hands to the answer as though she were captaining a ship over a roiling sea solely by the soft glow of the morning star.

He shrinks back, tail narrowly avoiding upsetting a plastic cup filled with colored markers, in order to avoid being brushed by her shoulder as she turns to deal. Three cards are flipped face up on a nearby shelf, empty save for a prodigious amount of dust bunnies that don’t even register for her. She only sees meaning--meaning that nearly brings tears to her eyes.

The ten of cups: ten grinning skulls, third eyes marked starkly on their foreheads, are missing their tops--filled instead with rioting marigold blossoms. A hangman’s knot rests in each corner of the card, which along with the flowers suggests the cycle of life and death.  _ Inner happiness, fulfillment, and dreams coming true. _

The page of wands: a skeleton wrapped in an elegant black robe trimmed in golden embroidery carries a bouquet of roses without thorns.  _ Exploration, excitement, and freedom. _

The six of rings: a pair of hands, long fingers adorned with five rings and a tattoo of an open eye, hold a dagger straight upwards in front of a sixth golden ring.  _ Charity, generosity, and sharing. _

“You were a dreamer as a child,” she laughs, but there is no humor in it, “You really wanted to be a superhero, to have adventures and make a difference in the world.”  _ You just wanted to be loved and happy and you never once felt that way.  _

“And when I realized that superheroes weren’t real? Then what?” he is watching her with those crimson eyes, handsome face absolutely blank.

She had said one question only, but he seems so invested, and to be honest she wants the knowledge of him for its own sake if he is willing to offer it. In short order, one last card joins the other three already on the shelf.

The sun: the skull of a lion with three dots in a triangle on its chin, centered under a golden disc set among the stars.  _ Joy, success, and celebration _ usually, but this time the cards meant  _ Apollo, god of music and the sun. _

“A musician,” she answers softly, “or an artist. It’s hard to be sure.”

“Both, as a matter of fact, but like most dreams it didn’t survive exposure to the harsh light of reality,” he sighs. “The harsh light of reality being bills to pay and the tower deciding to claim me, the Gryphon tribe black sheep, over any other more respectable member of my family.”

He makes no move to leave, instead watching as she collects her cards and wipes the clinging dust off on the sleeve of her navy and pink plaid cardigan.

“What about you?” he asks suddenly.

“What  _ about _ me?”

“What did you want to be as a kid? You got yet another one of my secrets, now it’s my turn to get something.”

“A librarian.”

“Don’t lie after I’ve been honest with you,” he jabs, sounding indignant.

“I am being honest,” she admits, wishing she could just drown in the spice wafting from his skin, or perhaps turn herself into one of the millions of loose glitter particles on the floor and thereby vanish--anything to stop being perceived, ”House Fortemps has a huge library and I spent nearly every waking moment in there as soon as I learned to read. Count Edmont always encouraged me in whatever I found interesting, but once I discovered there were people that only played with books all day… Being a librarian really has always been my dream.”

She looks down at her mindlessly reshuffling hands, “He suggested I go to the Scholasticate when I was old enough, so I did. Primary and secondary, then undergraduate and graduate. Received a master’s in bibliomantic science. Then I got a job here, and that’s it.”

“That’s it,” he echoes.

“That’s it,” she reiterates, feeling a bit silly at how simple things had been for her. How privileged. 

He had actually lived a life: nurtured dreams and lost them, then made do with the smoking remnants left behind. She had already achieved her biggest dream at only thirty summers. Sometimes she was a little lonely, sure, and she was adopted, yes, but she knew familial love and the true comfort of home. Count Edmont, Artoriel, Emmanellain, Haurchefant, and Ardbert all loved her and accepted her wholeheartedly in spite of her various faults, and they had ever since the day she left the orphanage and moved into Fortemps Manor. 

The man currently sharing space with her in a cramped and dusty closet had no idea what any of that was like. 

G’raha looks as though he might accuse her of lying again, tilting his head and gazing down at her with hooded eyes. But then he turns to put a hand on the handle of the closet door, “Alright. It’ll be a pleasure working with you, Molkot. Just don’t make me regret placing my trust in you.”

She makes a mental note to buy fresh bread and wine on her way home after work: the gods deserved the best she could afford tonight. An offering of thanks for all the heavy lifting they had obviously been doing on her behalf every day of her life. 


	7. [I/Magus] - part 2 | venandi phantasma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magus verso - trickery, illusions, out of touch
> 
> The Old Norse galdr is from the Hávamál, stanza 10.

“The 115th level is haunted.”

She turns her eyes upwards to him, one a striking violet and the other of deepest black, but she doesn’t look intrigued like he thought she would. She just looks distracted and annoyed, brows crinkled behind heavy frames, “I’m sorry but what?”

“Level 115. Haunted,” Raha repeats, ruby eyes glancing over the mess that is her desk and beginning to get the distinct impression that it's a bad time to chat. “I was up there last night… alone.”

Her glare makes him wince, “I know, I’m sorry. I messed up and I shouldn’t have,” he manages with a half-hearted shrug. He’s not actually that sorry, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. “Anyway. Haunted.”

Stelmaria huffs heavily with disdain, “Besides the fact that you are a certifiable idiot for going up there by yourself after I specifically told you not to--Ghosts aren’t real.”

The book she is cataloging is closed abruptly, as though to punctuate her pronouncement, then set aside with a snap. She reaches for a new one, only to discover that he is in the way of her pile of tomes needing work. Their eyes meet for a moment as she waits impatiently for him to realize that he needs to move. 

He does not realize, nor does he move.

“You left work early so I assumed you were busy last night, and I didn’t want to bother you,” he stammers, feeling uncomfortable at both her attention and his burning curiosity over what she was occupied with the night before. “And now we know there’s a problem to solve so we can go back up there and deal with it together. No big deal. I mean, it could wait I suppose, I don’t even have a spot yet...”

She sighs tersely, cutting across his rambling, “Look, if you're going to be in the way would you at least open the top book and read me the title page?”

“Oh.  _ OH.  _ Sorry.” Finally, he notices the pile of books he is blocking and reaches obligingly for the topmost title, ears warming slightly in embarrassment.

“Read me the title page, G’raha, then tell me about this hallucination you had,” she teases, turning back to her terminal.

He flips quickly to the correct page and reads aloud,  _ “On the strengthening of bonds between summoner and summoned entity: A treatise in four parts. _ Wow, that sounds like an exciting read.”

She ignores his quip entirely, hands hovering over her keyboard in readiness, “Who’s the creator? Read it exactly as it appears, please.”

“A concerned bibliomancer of quality?”

“Thank you. So, you were right in the middle of telling me that you’re losing your grip on reality? What happened after you saw the ghost? Did Midgardsormr roll up to your apartment and ask to borrow a hundred gil? You discovered incontrovertible proof that the Republic of Garlemald is secretly run by lizard people in disguise?” she prompts, busily typing.

“Look, just because I sometimes listen to old Gosetsu’s crazy stories for a laugh doesn’t mean I buy any of them. I can assure you that I am deeply entrenched in reality--I have the scars and bills to prove it,” he wheedles, even as she rolls her eyes, “And I’m telling you that there’s a ghost up there, Stel: I  _ saw _ it floating between the stacks and glowing this weird blue color. It was super creepy… There's no light up there at all and I didn’t realize it was even a thing because it was totally silent until I got too close, then it burbled or something and I uh… might have chickened out and run away at that point.”

His ears go flat, flustered at his own admission, but her giggle at his awkwardness is genuine and infectious. He can’t help but chuckle too, even though it’s at his expense. Learning new ways to make her laugh has become something of a point of pride for him--maybe even a hobby. One he indulges in at every opportunity.

Still smiling, she takes the book out of his hands, “I see. How noble of you then, to discover this threat by risking your own safety, Ser G’raha of the Valiant Heart.” Her ribbing makes it difficult for his face to decide if it wants to frown or grin in response.

She laughs again, warmly, “I am free tonight, if you want me to help you investigate?”

* * *

The ride in the clockwork elevator has been quiet, except for the metallic clicking of the gears. The silence allows more time to obsess over what she was busy with the previous evening. He just can’t seem to let it lie, to let it go and respect her privacy, to bear the quiet when thoughts of his best friend--his only friend--spending time with someone other than him crawl deeply under his skin and burn like embers.

Stupidly, he blurts out the very first sentence that coalesces in his mouth in an effort to fill the void, which coincidentally is also the very last thing he should be asking, “What exactly  _ were  _ you doing last night?”

She fiddles with a loose thread on her worn, eggplant colored cardigan, “I was…”

“What? ”

“I was on a date...”

“With who?” He’s definitely not invested in her answer. No way. Not at all. That’s why he is  _ most definitely not _ going to continue this moronic line of questioning when the witness is clearly hostile.

Raising her eyes, she fixes him with the most textbook perfect expression of  _ irritation  _ he has ever seen, “Gods, you’re  _ so damn nosy _ Red--with Haurchefant, ok? Lord Edmont is trying to set us up again.”

His brows knit in confusion, “But I thought you weren’t really into him?”

“I’m not, not that it's  _ even the tiniest bit _ your business, but Edmont gave me a family and paid for my education. It doesn’t hurt anything to humor him and go to dinner with his son. He wants me to be happy, he wants his sons to be happy, and he thinks the quickest path to that happiness is for me to marry one of his sons. He’s very old fashioned like that.”

“Would you?” 

“Would I  _ what?”  _ Her acidic tone would give any person of reasonable intelligence pause, but there are times when Raha is not a very smart man.

“Be happy, I guess? As an official Fortemps and not just an honorary one?” Without a doubt he knows that he is getting way too personal. Asking far too much from her. But he just can’t seem to stop himself from putting his  _ entire _ foot directly into his mouth as though he’s starving to death and it’s the only meat he’s seen in moons.

Her eyes flash, tail whipping wildly behind her, “I  _ am _ an official Fortemps: my full legal name is Stelmaria Kore Molkot de Fortemps, but I don’t use the whole thing because it’s too damn long and fancy and that’s just not me.” She crosses her arms, becoming suddenly very interested in melting the elevator’s control panel with just her eyes, “ _ Anyway, _ since you seem totally incapable of taking a damn hint I’ll just go ahead and tell you so you’ll leave it well enough alone: it’s not like that with Haurchefant, we just took the chance to catch up, and he’s moving in with me in a couple weeks.”

“Haurchefant is moving in with you?!” he exclaims, mouth falling open in surprise. 

She turns to look at him like he’s grown a second pair of arms.

“Yes? His lease is almost up and I need help with my rent…” she answers flatly, with the air of a patient parent explaining for the fifth time in the same bell why it is not acceptable for him to eat dirt.

Ah, good. Now she has realized that he’s a jealous, nosy ass on top of all his other flaws. Perfect. The only person in this whole mess he can count on and he irritates her and shames himself at every turn. It’s almost like he wants her to hate him.

Perhaps the elevator will malfunction; fall all the way to the basement at the speed of sound and he can just wink out of existence like a dying star--anything to get her to stop looking at him like that. As if he’s a fucking idiot.

She’s right--he is. But gods is it a living nightmare to know it for a fact.

Raha thinks to apologize, but the elevator stops and the metal gate slides open with a clatter. She takes off like a shot into the pitch blackness of the 115th level before he can even get a single word out, apology or otherwise. With a heavy sigh, he magicks a small, glowing red orb and attaches it to the front of his t-shirt like a boutonniere before following her out of the elevator rather more sedately. Staff out in front of him in a spellcasting stance, he begins to look for her between the nearest looming shelves, ears swiveling to catch even the tiniest sound.

Only for his blood to run cold when he hears her screaming. 

He breaks into a sprint in her direction, blind panic intensifying tenfold when the sound is abruptly cut off. His only thought is that he should never have let her go off alone--the tower is his responsibility. She isn’t even wearing her armor.

For a mercy, he finds her only a handful more shelves away, though she jumps nearly a fulm at his approach, pressing herself flat to the ranges behind her like a cornered animal. The dull red light of his conjured orb makes her deathly pale, fur standing on end and pupils blown wider than he’s ever seen.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching out to pat her arm comfortingly before thinking better of it and dropping his hand, “Hey, it’s just me. What happened?”

Her voice is so quiet he has to move very close and bend his head down to clearly hear her. The scent of her unidentifiable floral perfume tickles madly at his nose, even as her breath stirs the fine hairs inside his ear, “I saw it. I was walking along this row and it passed by down at the other end… A strange blue light, just like you said.”

Raha turns his head to look as she trails off, though he sees nothing. He must have only just missed it... whatever it is, “Conjure yourself some light and let’s go. Maybe we can get a look at it before it goes too far away.”

Stelmaria is at her best when she can follow a clear set of instructions; the methodical nature of it grounds and comforts her, like it does most catalogers. She follows his suggestion, setting several small, dark purple lights in her hair in the manner of victory laurels before smoothly drawing her rapier. The soft, dusky glow of the little lights on her face and skin renders his friend into an avenging underworld queen, newly arrived on the surface intent on collecting a bounty of fresh spirits for her dark kingdom.

_ Kore. Her middle name is Kore, _ he recalls from their earlier conversation in the elevator.  _ It really suits her. _

She gets his attention by setting her small hand under his elbow, before gesturing in the direction of the spirit’s last known location. Weapons at the ready, they sneak quietly toward the end of the row.

Without warning, the thing rounds the corner of the shelves. It floats, multiple fins uselessly churning air instead of water, perhaps two fulms off the floor: moist, glistening skin and beady eyes weirdly lit by a glowing blue orb suspended from the very top of its curiously flattened head. The fish creature has a tremendous overbite, which might be comical were it not for the seemingly infinite number of needle-like teeth set into its mismatched jaws, each fang nearly as long as his arm. The bobbing light is strangely fascinating, appealing to some primal instinct he doesn’t understand, causing his feet to move in its direction unbidden--a moth to a flame.

“Red,  _ don’t,” _ she whispers faintly, face nearly hidden in the back of his shirt, so frightened as to be nearly breathless.

Her fear centers him: makes him recall where he is and what he’s doing. Reminds him that if anything in the tower harms her, it’s his fault.

Perhaps it has seen them, perhaps not, but he doesn’t intend to find out either way.

Reckless with horror and adrenaline, he takes her hand tightly in his and scrambles down the row in the opposite direction as fast as he can move. She hesitates, staring at the floating apparition, before being pulled along in his wake, the soles of their sneakers making slapping sounds that echo in the huge open expanse. At the end of the row they turn and dart down another aisle of towering stacks, gilded spine titles flaring briefly in the light of the conjured orbs, rendered illegible by their speed as they run pell-mell all the way to the end of the aisle. He chooses another at random, heart still racing, bypassing several rows at the next crossroads. 

The brightly colored bindings of the endless rows of titles bleed into the empty spaces between the shelves in his panicked brain. So panicked in fact, that he bites the inside of his cheek in surprise when he catches a glimpse of what looks to be a masked and hooded figure in black at the far end of a range: metal claws and elaborate chest piece glinting maliciously in the red light. He glances back again, mouth tasting of blood and bile, but there is nothing. 

No one.

_ You are imagining things, idiot, _ he tells himself. He is the undisputed master of this tower--he would know if anyone else was in the building--and yet he feels nothing. No presence, other than the comforting familiarity of Stel’s aether and the warmth of her fingers in his. Nothing untoward, except a cool prickle on his chest over his heart, where he seems to suddenly be developing a crystal seam.

They run until his lungs bubble with liquid fire and he can hear her likewise exhaling in rattling gasps close behind him.

“Red,” she pants when they finally come to a stop, sheathing her rapier and bending to put her hands on her knees in an effort to catch her breath, “that’s not a ghost--it’s a sending. A permanent spiritus liber.”

He nods, she would know better than him. Wincing, he rubs the stitch in his side, ignoring the itch in the tightening patch of skin on his chest, “Ok. Cool. How do we handle it?”

Breath caught, she smiles confidently in the twilight glow of her halo of lights, rolling up the left sleeve of her cardigan to just past the elbow, “It looked like a big fish to me. How do you handle any big fish?”

There is a tattoo there, delicate black lines inked on the inside of her forearm: a symbol made of eight spokes, roughly circular, the end of each spoke spread into multiple teeth, crescent moon shapes, and seemingly random dots. The tattoo he has seen before, but he has never seen nor heard of the magick she performs now as he observes with naked interest.

Hovering her dominant hand over the mark she threads strange words into a strangely haunting melody,  _ “Byrði betri berr-at maðr brautu at en sé mannvit mikit; auði betra þykkir þat í ókunnum stað; slíkt er válaðs vera.” _ The spell takes effect immediately: a glowing white copy of the mark floats off her skin, stopping to hover an ilm or so in the air over the original tattoo. It spins freely, obviously pointing toward something, but what that something is he doesn’t know. 

She digs around in her waist pouch for a moment before producing a brass pendulum, the lenses of her glasses becoming opaque in the idly spinning mark’s reflected light. Her grin is so wide he can see every bit of her sparkling white fangs, “You find a bigger fish.”


	8. [I/Magus] - part 3 | venandi phantasma, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magus verso - trickery, illusions, out of touch
> 
> Continuation of [I/Magus] - part 2
> 
> See if you can spot the canon Estinien cameo!

The mark is properly called a wayfinder, or _vegvísir_ in old Ishgardian. 

Between bouts of deep concentration, she explains that the spinning mark is tracking the position of the three books they need for their next move. When Stelmaria fades out of reality, her eyes glaze over and ice water trickles down his spine at the sight of it—a momentary sense of panic. He finds that it helps to busy himself with playing guard and carrying the books, making it unnecessary for him to observe her engaging in what looks suspiciously like a stroke.

The pendulum, on the other hand, shows the general direction of the creepy fish. In an effort to avoid the sending, their chosen path between ranges has been, in a word, twisty. As a result, he has completely lost what little sense of direction he had. To be honest, Raha was beginning to suspect that if she somehow managed to ditch him he’d slowly starve to death–unable to find the exit. Or simply turn to crystal first, as the itching feeling on his chest reminds him with unflinching accuracy.

It was more than a little mortifying for the “ _master_ ” of the tower to be trailing around in her wake like a lost gosling: bent over, as though in supplication, the fingers of his free hand hooked in the belt loops of her jeans–so they didn’t get separated.

In much the same way that anticipation causes time to behave strangely, the couple of ilms between his hand and the warm skin under the hem of her shirt is simultaneously uncomfortably close and impossibly far. A distraction of a different kind than guarding and carrying to be sure, but a distraction nonetheless. 

“Hey?” he mutters, trying to focus on the titles they are passing instead of the smooth motion of her hips under his palm.

“What is it, Red?”

“I’m sorry about–before. In the elevator.”

She laughs, softly, “Don’t. It’s been a long, long day and we’re both tired and on edge.”

“But–,”

“It’s fine, G’raha, really. I have to concentrate.”

“But I–”

She stops so short that he runs right into the back of her, almost burying his face between her shoulder blades and only just avoiding getting whapped in the crotch by her tail. There isn’t time to be embarrassed or stammer out yet another apology before she rounds on him, ears flagged high and purple lights in her hair bobbing like mad, to deliver a savage flick to the end of his nose.

“OW!” he hisses in pain, russet ears laid flat, “Ok ok, I get the message.”

Stelmaria resumes walking with intention, following the prompting of the _vegvísir_ and the pendulum. Raha indulges himself in a pouty silence, which is easy enough as he attempts to carry two books under one arm, as well as hold his staff and rub his smarting nose with one free hand. Maybe it was time to start wearing his armor, seeing as it came with a sort of magnetic holster on the back for rod-type weapons. Or maybe he could ask Biggs if it was possible to make something similar–sans the rest of the whole magick-repelling leather bodysuit business.

Not that he could tell Biggs what it was for. In all probability, it would be easier to just suck it up, wear the armor, and hope that it didn’t interrupt the flow of aether between him and the tower too much.

She comes to a stop once more, pulling another book from the shelf before passing it back for him to hold, “The last one. Thank the gods.” The wayfinder sinks back into her skin as she passes her hand over the glowing white mark.

In the dim red of his orb, he can just barely see the titles without his reading glasses:

  * _Sharks: They’re just really neat_
  * _What do fish even eat anyway?: A guide to underwater mealtimes_
  * _The big book of big stuff (Now with many more fold-out pages that are impossible to re-fold!)_



“Stel,” he ventures, “Where’s the bodybuilding book I said we should get?”

Her eyes flash red in his light when she gives him another look in the middle of trying to secure her pendulum. The look is his favorite: the classic _You fool, you absolutely have brain damage and I have no idea why I spend any time with you_ look, “Red, the shark does not need ‘big swole arms and legs for suplexing’.”

He tries very hard to appear deadly serious, almost succeeding, “A shark that skips both arm and leg day is not a shark capable of handling this situation, in my professional opinion.”

Tiring of his antics, she kneels in the pitch blackness and begins to trace a large seven pointed star with her chalk onto the floor under their feet. When finished, it will be wider across the middle than he could reach with both arms outstretched. Sinking into a crouch, he leans close to her in an effort to shed more light on the subject, face split in an idiotic grin while she grouses, “Your professional opinion is the dumbest thing I have ever heard, in my professional opinion.”

The star is completed. He hands her the books and in return, she passes him the incense and lighter. Flipping to the index of the first title, her eyes scan rapidly over the text, searching for the information they need in the phantom glow of her purple lights. He has noticed that when she is engrossed in reading, she has a tendency to worry her bottom lip between her teeth–how Keepers manage to do so without biting themselves never ceases to impress him.

He smells her perfume again, that unidentifiable floral something-or-other. After another few moments, her bangs fall into her eyes, prompting her to use her free hand to gather and tuck them behind an ear, which fails again with a certain inevitability: amethyst strands sliding sinuously back into her field of vision.

To watch her at work is to be charmed.

Not wanting to be caught staring, he steps carefully out of the way while she finishes checking the first book—setting it with intention on a nearby chalk line intersection. Turning to the next third of the design, she begins the process of examining the index again, leaving him to ready the incense for the title she just prepared for the next stage of the spell.

In an effort to understand her magicks, he had been reading her borrowed bibliomancy manuals (with her permission, of course, and replete with her amusing handwritten marginalia) in his spare time. As a result he felt reasonably comfortable with the basic methods, but he was no closer to creating a _spiritus liber_ alone, nor had there so far been any decent explanation for why her magick in particular felt strange to him. Each attempt to recreate the wharf rat, Teenie, had ended in a frustrating failure, but the magick itself was no different than the thousands of other bibliomantic castings he had been privy to: slow, steady, and ordered. The magickal equivalent of laying brickwork to build a wall.

Stelmaria’s magick, in comparison, is like looking at one of those hidden 3D pictures: unrestrained chaos until your mind shifts and a picture appears as though it had always been there–you only needed a little gentle prompting to remember that fact. It gave him the impression of a vast and roiling reservoir of power held in check by a leaking dam. The magick that he experienced in her presence was just the bit oozing determinedly through a crack.

His contemplation carries him through the rest of the spell’s prep work in a bit of a daze. Only when the incense is all lit and the books are roughly positioned in a triangle inside the intricate design does he join her at its center.

Stelmaria faces him from a distance of less than a fulm, close enough to make him feel stupid, and she holds up her right hand with the palm out, “Come on, let’s summon the damn thing and get this over with. Give me your hand.”

Without a doubt, his smirk and the tilt of his ears is quite lopsided when he places his palm against hers. The rough calluses on her fingers are the product of years spent in confident work with a sword. If he squinted, he could be like the handsome prince in the story he told at toddler time earlier today; cursed with eternal sleep, then rescued and courted in turn by a brave and stubborn warrior princess. A princess who in her previous adventures had even persuaded a grumpy, stinky dragon to be her friend rather than her enemy.

She is not having any of his foolish daydreaming or his goofy expression, “Look Red, I like you too but we’re not lining up to go out to the playground here. I need your dominant hand to summon this _spiritus_ —it’s going to take both of us. I know you know this stuff… where is your head today?”

“Oh yea, sorry,” he says, switching which hand holds his staff to acquiesce to her request, before interweaving their fingers. The smirk remains undiminished.

“Please focus,” her tone has an edge of anxiety to it, and he does his best to oblige her as she continues, reminding him, “We have to hold the image of the final _spiritus_ uppermost in our minds while we try to maintain an even flow of aether between us. If you fuck up we could end up unconscious, or worse, we could permanently lose our ability to alphabetize.”

He must admit, Stelmaria certainly has some priorities. He doesn’t agree with the order she has chosen in the slightest, but they are a thing.

“What if _you_ fuck up?” He probes, tail curled in a questioning manner.

“I _don’t_ fuck up. Not stuff like this anyway, everything else is debatable.”

The urge to titter at her deadpan delivery is unbearable, but he manages to suppress it. The energy she would waste on trying to turn him to stone with her gaze like a Gorgon would be more prudently spent on the summoning.

Their eyes close and there is a moment when her mental and physical presence is his only awareness: a gently shifting probe of violet hued aether in his mind, her small hand with its delicate fingers warm against his palm, her breath a steady rhythm in counterpoint to the pulse he can feel through her skin. Her perfume smells of summer sunshine, he decides—honeysuckle, jasmine, and lemon.

He concentrates with a will on the thread of magickal energy connecting them. If he could not limit the throughput by careful maintenance, she might collapse under the sheer magnitude of the tower’s energy. Needless to say the regulation of aether is, for all intents and purposes, his job and the consequences of failure could be dire.

The two years he has spent as the tower’s living conduit have taught him the value of control in all things. The power of the Tower Library is an infinite sea, fueled by the sun itself, and it can’t simply be turned off; it is a constant lurking presence in his every waking moment. There were times that he dreamed of it, ensuring that there was truly no refuge left for him. At best, the energy can be managed, but only through an eternal vigil that he has just recently found doable.

However, he must still do his half of the summoning and trying to juggle both is… difficult, to say the least. His head is stuffed nearly to a breaking point under the combined pressure of her mind and the library’s yoke. It does not help the issue when the only other thoughts he has room for are patently ridiculous: _Big shark. Really really big shark. Fifty fulms long shark with big teeth that enjoys eating creepy anglerfish_.

In the manner of a true miracle, she pulls him through the eye of the needle via the sheer force of her indomitable will—the chalk lines of the star transmuting into blue and purple fire that he can see even with closed lids. The formidable predator coalesces from the incense smoke into shining white light with no trouble at all, thrashing their tail in excitement at being given form and purpose.

His pleasure at a successful summon is short lived when Stelmaria pays the price for his momentary inattention. The presence of her mind in his skull is gone in an instant. With ruby eyes now open in surprise, he watches the lights in her hair wink out as she falls towards him in slow motion; almost knocking him over before he can catch her with the one arm not occupied with his staff, managing by a hair to prevent a clumsy tumble to the floor like a pair of broken dolls.

He really should get some sort of holster for his weapon because this is beyond ridiculous.

Guilt gnaws at his insides, and with the crystal spot on his chest burning like a brand made of ice, he lays her still form out with care beside him across her precise chalk lines, now faded—their magick spent. She looks like she might simply be asleep, but she is pale and clammy under his fingers when he checks the pulse at her wrist. Relief floods him: it is a little fast and wild, but the tower’s effect _could_ have been so much worse.

The shark seems to be looking at him expectantly, waiting for a command. With Stelmaria out, it falls to Raha to issue the instructions. Except, he’s never done this before and the recognized authority on the subject is unconscious on the cold floor like a waxwork: “Can we have a moment, please? Uh… Sharkbro?”

 _Very well_ , a voice made of crackling static overlaid with grinding metal echoes in every corner of his head.

Raha watches as the shark turns and undulates down the row before turning out of sight, apparently wishing to give them some semblance of privacy. Unfortunate, as it takes most of the light with it when it leaves. His steadfast little red sphere is all that remains to pierce the oppressive blackness.

“Just the two of us then, Stel. In the dark,” he observes into the silence, as if talking will wake her faster.

It doesn’t.

He can’t keep putting it off: the anglerfish issue needs handling and the _spiritus_ won’t wait an eternity. It is time to make the best of a bad situation.

As always, the library interior is cool. Stelmaria often complains of being “too damn cold” at work, even bundled up in multiple cardigans, hooded sweatshirts, coats, and purloined break room blankets. When she wakes up she’ll probably be cold, and he might not be present to help. Shrugging off his own black cardigan, he drapes it over the eggplant colored one she is wearing to keep off the chill in his absence. She is just three ilms shorter than him but the sweater is so large she nearly disappears under its woven bulk.

“I have to go and deal with the fish, but I’ll be right back ok?” He hates seeing her like this, the contrast between the current Stel and her usual sarcastic dynamo vibe makes him miserable. Her current predicament being completely his fault is the proverbial creamy dressing on the crap salad. _Somehow, I’ll make it up to her_ , he thinks, sweeping her bangs out of her eyes. He is not sure what he thought it would feel like instead, but her hair is soft and smooth between his fingers. Unsurprising then, that it was always mischievously sliding out of anything she tried to restrain it with.

Looking up, he intends to stand and join the _spiritus_ , but he sees the masked figure in the black robe down the row in front of him. The claws on their gloves glint red in the light from his bauble and at this distance he can see that the robe is not plain black like he thought previously, but patterned in a sort of purple swirl.

They, whoever they are, are most definitely real and _not_ a hallucination or an uncontrolled oracular vision.

“Who are you?” Raha asks, tense with the strangeness of it and Stel’s vulnerability.

Their laugh is high and breathy, cold and cruel, lips thin below the rim of the red mask, “I am nothing and no one to a sundered such as yourself, _Master Oracle_. I will properly introduce myself only when I have determined that you are worthy of our interest and not one moment before.”

Something about their voice makes him deeply uncomfortable, a familiarity he cannot account for and wishes he was not experiencing. The use of both of his titles by this unknown stranger is also shocking in the extreme—not even Stel and her alethiomancy had managed to guess them _both_ , much less in one shot like this person had just done. Raha’s first instinct is anger: there are too many things happening at the moment to deal with nonsense like this.

His mouth opens to riposte with a pithy retort when a crash echoes from the next row over, causing him to involuntarily turn his head in the direction of the sound. Sharkbro has made contact with the enemy.

When he turns back the figure is gone, as sudden as it reappeared, “Fucking perfect. Now, not only do we have two giant fish going _mano a mano_ , there’s a cosplaying stalker hanging around, Stel. You better wake up soon, otherwise you won’t believe me when I tell you the story.”


	9. [I/Magus] - part 4 | piscantur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magus verso - trickery, illusions, out of touch
> 
> Continuation of [I/Magus] - part 3
> 
> cw: some predatory behavior [biting, some description of gross sounds] on the part of a couple of very large fish, a little bit of a blood-like substance

Sharkbro found the anglerfish all right, as the pile of books on the floor in the next row silently attests. Well, not that silently as it happens—they rustle in an unhappy sort of way as his red sphere spreads its dim rays across their worn and dusty bindings. The _spiritus_ and the sending are nowhere in sight.

So where have they gone?

A simple question but, for Raha, a difficult answer. He has no method by which to track either creature: no wayfinder tattoos or Ishgardian _galdr_ or decks of tarot cards anywhere on him. Even if he did have the tools, he lacks the necessary magicks to use them properly. It strikes him again how much he has been relying on Stelmaria to compensate for his many shortcomings—to be the other half of the team. He rather feels like he’s attempting to take on a boxing champion with his good arm tied behind his back.

He runs his free hand over his arm, thinking. The level is quite chilly without his cardigan and its absence renders his tattoos clearly visible: alternating bands of solid black and arcane lettering, extending from his mid forearm all the way up, before fanning out over his shoulder blades and chest. Extensive, but easily covered by a t-shirt and sweater. He’d had them since his thirtieth nameday, the day the tower claimed him for the second time.

Raha much prefers the elemental sigil on the back of his neck, the mark that gives him access to the Restricted Levels and the _Prohibitorum_. The brand signifies his acceptance into a small circle of individuals who value knowledge above all else, who enjoy finding their own answers to questions rather than taking things at face value, and delight in sharing that knowledge with others—librarians.

Something scattered on the floor near the tumbled tomes catches his eye: a liquid substance rather like quicksilver, glowing with a faint pearlescent light of its own. Blood? No, it lacked that distinctive warm copper tang. Even at this distance, he would be able to scent blood—then what was it? Curious, he moves closer and probes the puddle with the end of his staff to be sure it won’t suddenly leap up and attack, before crouching down and running a digit through the edge. There is a slight resistance at his touch, but then his finger breaks the gelatinous surface and becomes engulfed in a buzzing sensation. His hand is clean after withdrawing it, confirming his suspicions.

Aether. The anglerfish has taken a wound and is leaking aether—a balloon slowly losing air.

Excellent, as that will make it easier for Sharkbro to catch and consume it. Assuming he can find Sharkbro. Or the sending in question.

And just like that, Raha finds himself back at square one. He rubs absentmindedly at the crystal over his heart, trying to think once more about the problem at hand and _not_ the furious tugging itch of the patch on his skin _nor_ how he had left Stel behind, unconscious under his cardigan.

His wandering eye spies another pool of shed aether glinting just at the very edge of his rather limited vision, a few fulms away down the aisle.

Even better. Now there is a trail to follow.

This game of cat and ~~mouse~~ fish has become a nature documentary, a running commentary in his head as he darts down endless rows of cramped shelving, following the trail of luminescent droplets—each one a miniature moon pulling him onward with its gravity.

 _See the clever Gryphon tribe Tia track his dangerous prey. Behold his swift and sure movements, his dashing good looks, as he searches for signs of its secretive passage. Perhaps this legendary display of hunting prowess will attract the attention of a worthy mate?_ A pity that no one, be they worthy or unworthy, was watching.

Rounding the corner, Raha spots the anglerfish lurking, the odd blue light of its bobbing head tentacle casting its beams over yet another random pile of scattered books. Stel was going to be… _perturbed_ at the wildly expansive range of this upcoming cleaning job.

The sending seems disoriented, fins moving in wobbling circles instead of the smooth strokes he had observed earlier when it took them by surprise. If it was possible for sendings to be drunk, he’d say it had partaken entirely too much of some intoxicating substance.

Which makes its sudden about-face and subsequent hungry open-mouthed stare in his direction all the more unnerving.

A stray recollection from one of the bibliomancy books wriggles with perverse joy into the forefront of his mind: _Critically injured sendings will seek to replenish themselves by any means necessary, including consuming nearby sources of living aether, possessing a notable fondness for the aether of underprepared bibliomancers_.

 _Underprepared bibliomancers_.

Isn’t he one of those?

 _Fuck_.

“FUCK!” he shouts, raising his staff to block as the sending charges at him, a famished glint in its fishy eyes. He braces himself, expecting a juddering impact against his weapon or worse, a painful tearing sensation as his aether is consumed by a semi-corporeal magickal construct.

What happens next is neither of those things.

Buzzing, like he’d stuck his finger into an outlet, pervades his system accompanied by a feeling not unlike being dunked in cold water. A bright white cone appears in the center of his chest: growing, expanding outward, morphing into jaws filled with multiple rows of sharp teeth, then predatory eyes, and then gills. In the next instant, Sharkbro has rocketed through the solid barrier of his body in full and thrown itself snout first into the sending, mouth open in delicious expectation.

It seemed Sharkbro was capable of phasing through objects on a case-by-case basis.

He feels unpleasant—a little hollowed out and shaky—the aftermath of a flu. For the briefest of moments, he thinks he might need a stiff drink and a change of underwear, but he forgets his discomfort at the sight of the two magickal constructs at war.

It is a well established phenomenon, that when a favorite story is transferred from the page to the screen there is quite often something lost in the transition. An unidentifiable charm is absent from the final film—a specific feeling that can apparently only thrive in your head. You tend to leave the theatre afterwards in a daze, wondering how what you just saw was in any way related to the original tale that you loved.

Such is the way of books: to harbor a certain kind of irreproducible magick tailored to the desires of each individual magician. A magick that lives for them and them alone.

What Raha is now experiencing is the opposite effect: the descriptions he had read in Stel’s bibliomancy books paled in comparison to the clash currently unfolding between these two titans of aetherically conjured flesh. Intellectually, he understood the means by which a sending was captured, or “consumed” by another construct, so that its corresponding tome or tomes could be located and cleansed of residual aether, thereby breaking the spell.

In practice, he was not prepared to witness such a thing in the slightest.

The _spiritus_ is quick to score a savage bite on the flank of the anglerfish, and a pool of the strange quicksilver liquid drips wetly onto the floor under the two struggling creatures. They writhe over and against each other, fighting for dominance in such an unmistakably sexual way that he feels a nigh irrepressible urge to avert his eyes in secondhand embarrassment. For a time, Sharkbro seems to have the upper hand, until the sending somehow secures its uneven jaws in the _spiritus_ ' underside.

If the anglerfish were to somehow consume the _spiritus_ , it would not heal. A conjured _spiritus_ is not living aether, though aether is used in its construction: it is only an idea or memory given form via the manifesting will of the bibliomancer, quickened by the barest breath of aether, and no more. The miqo’te tenses, alarmed in the extreme. Just because Sharkbro is not living aether does not mean that all is well— _Raha_ is made of living aether, and quite a lot of it too. He is a decent enough magician and librarian, but quasi-merged as he is with the Crystal Tower in his capacity as its master… He would be a formidable meal indeed. Which is to say nothing of his other, more esoteric role and attendant abilities. If the _spiritus_ loses to the sending, Raha will be the main course, and poor Stelmaria will be dessert.

Earlier, he had been joking when he suggested that the shark needed arms and legs to fight with. Now, he fervently wished that he had managed to convince Stel of his genius. How much easier could this be resolved if Sharkbro had simply lifted the anglerfish and suplexed it like a television wrestler?

No use crying over spilt birch syrup.

Still, what can he do? What would Stel do?

Stel, of course, would do something brilliant and dignified. _Brilliant_ and _dignified_ were not really words Raha would use to describe his _modus operandi_.

 _Distraction_ it is then.

“Hey! Ugly! I think I met your momma once: she was on a bun over at King Mog’s! I even paid extra for cheese!” he shouts, reckless and stupid and waving his staff around like a madman.

Both creatures freeze and turn to look at him, wearing almost identical puzzled expressions—inasmuch as fish can have expressions, anyway.

“Yeah, you heard what I said, you fish stick! I’ll eat you too! After I slather you in vanilla pudding!” he yells, pretending to dip something into something else with what he hopes is a threatening smirk on his face. The fish remain motionless at his continued outbursts, obviously stunned.

He is incredulous; there is absolutely no way this should be working, and somehow it is. Stel has always said that the dumbest gambits work best and—as usual—she is right.

Not that he ever plans to tell her so—he’d never hear the end of it.

Complete idiocy continues to pour from his mouth like a tapped keg filled with nonsense while he tries, desperate, to get Sharkbro to realize: _this is your chance! It is looking at me and not at you so please, for the love of all of Zeus’s bastard children would you just eat the damn sending so that I can stop making an ass out of myself?_

For a mercy, something about his ridiculous flailing must get the message across, because when the anglerfish turns back to the shark as though to commiserate about the strange little red cat man, Sharkbro surprises it with a well placed crunching bite behind the eyes. The sending goes still, hanging limp from the shark’s jaws—an accurate rendition of death, for a construct that is not technically alive.

The illusion of mortality continues as the shark begins to consume the anglerfish in earnest, complete with wet cracking, munching, and snuffling sounds. Raha’s stomach turns to hear it, and he walks quickly back the way he came, hoping to put some distance between himself and the unpleasant reality of a ravenous predator, conjured though it may be.

It is during this trip into the darkness and away from the horror of fish eating fish that he discovers two tomes, side by side on an otherwise empty range. His trusty little ruby sphere turns the gilt on the black cloth cover of the closest book the color of rust—discarded weapons and old, dried blood. The design is that of an anglerfish, jaws wide in anticipation. No doubt, this is the book used to create the sending. The very book he will need to cleanse with salt and iron borrowed from Stelmaria’s waist pouch.

The other tome is, without a doubt, one of the strangest he has ever seen. It is quite handsome: bound in black leather quartered with red, and with a bright red ribbon to serve as a bookmark. The strangeness is due to the pages, which are blank, but seem to be made of impossibly thin sheets of the tower’s own crystal. They are semi-transparent and possessed of an unearthly glow, the very same luminescence the tower displays at night or in darkened levels of the _Prohibitorium_. He is not sure what to make of the book itself, nor of the overwhelming desire that he feels when he looks on it—to take it with him and _write in it_.

He idly flips back to the first page, brain filling with a resonance rather like striking tuning forks of the same pitch together. There are now glittering golden words on the page—elegant, looping, and slanted to the right, slightly cramped but still legible, as though the writer was used to wringing every ilm of space out of each scrap of paper:

**_Hello, my friend._ **

**__**

**_Long have I waited for you to find the journal so that we may speak in some manner. Pray, respond at your earliest convenience—I wish to hear tales of your adventures so far._ **

What in the merciful name of Eleos was even going on here? If the book _wanted_ to speak to him, that meant he could take it right? But it was dangerous to remove things from the _Prohibitorium_ ; Stel had reminded him of this fact so many times now that he had lost count.

Deliberating, he almost does not notice Sharkbro gliding up the aisle behind him, unreasonably bright and looking as pleased as it is possible for a shark to look—mouth stretched in what was obviously a grin, but showing far too many teeth to be at all reassuring.

 _She is going to light my ass up like the fields of Asphodel if she finds out that I took it, but I really want to know what is happening with this journal_ , he decides, slipping the book into a pocket, “I take it you got it done?”

 _I have feasted. It pleased me. You have found the source. That also pleases me_ , intones the _spiritus_. Sharkbro really does sound pleased too: there is an uplift to the syllables static-echoing in Raha’s mind.

“So this is definitely the anglerfish’s source then?” he muses, lifting the book from the shelf and examining it from every angle.

 _Yes, Master Oracle_.

He sighs, more than a little frustrated at how everybody and their mother seems to know his business tonight, “Please don’t call me that. Stel could be awake and hearing you in her head right now for all I know. She isn’t aware of that stuff and I’d kind of like to keep it that way, ok?”

_Stel. The purple one?_

“Yes, the purple one,” he chuckles.

_Very well, red one. Shall I tidy?_

“Tidy?” he asks, forgetting to be upset over being reduced to his own color by a fish.

 _The books, red one_.

“You can do that?”

 _Yes_ , the voice echoes. By way of demonstration the sending lazily flicks a fin, generating a swirling eddy of wind that gathers up the closest few books on the floor and gently deposits them back on their shelves. _Your command will still be required to get them to sleep_ , Sharkbro explains, _but they will heed your desires to the best of their ability. This is your tower, therefore they are your tomes_.

Levinstruck, Raha nods his assent and Sharkbro bustles off to keep their word.

 _His_ command. _His_ tower. _His_ tomes.

Well, if nothing else, that means he can keep the journal, seeing as its his anyway.

Focusing on the book bound in black cloth, Raha leans his staff against the shelves close by and readies the salt and iron. Muttering under his breath and weaving magick into his hands, his tattoos glow and move, rotating across his skin, confined within their inked tracks before winking out altogether when he applies the spell to the tome with his right hand. It shudders under his touch, waiting—an aging companion invited to take its rest by its masters side.

“ _Pūrgō_ ,” he whispers, placing the small iron cube down on the cover and tossing an arc of salt over it. The book ceases trembling and seems to exhale, giving off wispy white energy that dissipates into the darkness. He exhales his own sigh then as he picks up the iron and pockets it, before swiping the last of the salt off his hands and the shelf.

He retrieves his staff just as the shark glides back into view.

_It is tidied._

“Really?” he comments, surprised, “that’s quick work.”

_I exist to serve, red one. Have the tomes been ushered into sleep?_

“I mean—I was about to. Yeah,” his ears go flat as his tail flicks back and to the left.

 _Quiet your mind, then use the key to amplify your desire outward. They will sleep if you command them to do so_.

Self-conscious, Raha follows Sharkbro’s advice by emptying his mind in the way he does before casting a spell, but sort of pushing the feeling down and out into his staff rather than beginning an incantation. The moonstone at its head flashes brightly. Then something… happens… a breeze—or maybe a thought—something intangible, passes from him out into the closest shelves and then races from book to book along each row and down each aisle until every denizen of the 115th has received his message via this unusual game of telephone: **SLEEP**.

Silence greets him—the entire level is deeply asleep, excepting him and Sharkbro.

 _Well done. It has been an unexpected pleasure, red one. My thanks to you and the purple one for the gift of this time together_ , Sharkbro hums, then the shark _bows_. There is simply no other word to describe the motion.

Raha is gobsmacked: he had thought Sharkbro strange before, but this really takes the cake. _Spiritus_ do not have so _much_ personality—or any personality for that matter. _Spiritus_ do not have feelings like pleasure and thanks. And, now that he really thinks on it, _spiritus_ most certainly do not come up with affectionate nicknames for their bibliomancers.

Still, Sharkbro had been a great help. Who was he, really, to say what the giant shark could or not not do—he would just have to be sure to tell Stel all the details later.

“ _Libero_ , Sharkbro. Thanks for everything,” he murmurs, patting the shark’s flank the way stablehands do to chocobos in movies he’d seen as a kit.

He watches Sharkbro fade into smoke and energy, before reaching out with his aether for Stel—for the color and warmth that is hers alone—so that he can find his way back to her side. A few moments jogging and there she is: exactly where he’d left her, swaddled in his cardigan. He grins at the sight of her frowning face, unable to stop himself, (no doubt she is dreaming about something that annoys her) and there is a pulling at his heart. Unconsciously, he lifts one hand to rub at the skin being tugged by the crystal on his chest, only to discover the spot is gone.

What exactly the aching feeling was, he cannot say.

* * *

Somehow—a miracle—he manages to get her downstairs and onto the break room couch without injuring himself on either of their weapons or dropping her on her head. Exhausted, he pulls a chair over from the table where they frequently eat lunch together to maintain vigil beside her in the dark—the idea of her waking up alone in an unusual place makes his stomach ache. She should be comfortable at least, and if she needed something while she slept or when she woke he was resolved to get it.

Whenever she happens to wake up.

 _Hopefully soon?_ He checks the big, red numbers on the digital wall chronometer: one quarter 'till the morning’s third bell. She’s been out nearly two full bells.

Just when he decides he might as well get a little rest for himself, she moves. Her brows furrow then relax, her ears flutter, and her lips purse into a little _moue_ of irritation—an expression he often sees when he teases her for being too serious. All tiny flickers of movement he would have easily missed if he wasn’t straight up staring at her like a hermit seeing another human for the first time in years.

“Are you awake?” he asks in a gentle tone, very aware of his starring role in this particular fuck up. “I handled everything myself, so don’t worry,” he continues, hoping good news will soften her temper.

Surely he could take any well-deserved verbal skewerings she may deliver.

Surely?

“You fucked it up,” she groans, eyes closed.

He rambles, ears tucked low, “Look, realizing I was going to fuck it up isn’t all that amazing. It was gonna happen anyway: the sun rises in the east before setting in the west, fire is hot, and I frequently fuck up. What can I say other than that it’s a talent I have spent my whole life cultivating—”

“Red, _please_. I have a headache,” her face is pinched from pain in the dim light.

“Sorry. I stopped suppressing the tower’s energy too soon and you got caught in its revenge,” he admits, sheepish.

“This sucks. How do you deal with it all the time?” She sounds tired, and doesn’t seem to be bouncing back as quickly as he’d hoped.

“It’s not usually such an asshole—it’s just when I try to cast magick with someone else that I need to be careful. Honestly, I got used to it always being there, sort of like a shitty roommate that never does the dishes or takes out the garbage.”

“And that literally lives in your head…”

“And that literally lives in my head, yes.”

A few more moments pass in quiet before she moans softly, hand over her mouth, “I feel so gross.”

Even in the lurid glow from the break room vending machines she looks terrible: hair a mess, heavy circles under her closed eyes, and face pale. It’s difficult for him to apologize to her around the lump in this throat, but he makes a go of it just the same, “I’m so sorry, Stel. This is all my fault.”

She gives a heavy sigh and opens her dark eyes to look at him, pensive, “I know you’re expecting me to drag you, Red, but really I don’t feel like it. Yes, you messed up, but it sounds like you’re being harder on yourself than I could ever be. _Everybody_ fucks up sometimes. Besides, now that you know what you have trouble with you can fix it for the next time.” When she finishes speaking, he clears his throat, suddenly very glad that there will be a next time. Then, she unexpectedly takes his hand in hers, asking, “Just do me a favor and take it easy, ok?”

A hot flush trickles across his nose and cheeks. Nodding is all he can manage, but he frowns in the next instant when she drops his hand as if she’s been stung, “Sorry, I seem to always be grabbing at you. I know that you don’t like it, and I’ll try to do better.”

Annoyed. She’s _annoyed_ with herself. They are far too much alike.

“No, it’s ok. I don’t mind so much anymore, really,” he replies, taking her hand again between both of his. It is her sword hand, and the pad of his thumb can detect a delicate spider’s web of old scars zig zagging over back of her knuckles.

“I should sleep, but I can’t drive the Malboro like this—I’ll get in a wreck. I might camp here on the couch tonight to be safe, but what about you? Are you going to go home, Red?” Her voice is soft and sleepy. Lulled by the motion of his fingers across her skin, her eyes begin to drift closed once more.

“I told you that I never learned to drive,” he laughs, squeezing her fingers, “and it’s too late to catch a bus at this point. I was thinking of just dozing off right here in this chair.”

Her mismatched eyes snap open and pin him, “Get in. Plenty of room.” She puts her decision into action by scooting herself toward the back of the couch, leaving an empty strip just wide enough for him to join her.

“What? I can’t—?” She can’t be serious.

She’s serious: “First of all, you’re thirty two summers, old man; you’ll mess up your back sleeping in that shitty chair. Secondly, you lead baby time tomorrow, which I have on good authority will require you to play around on the floor for an extended period,” she motions at him, clearly amused, “Quit your bitching and hop in. We can even sleep back to back if you’re that worried about it—so long as you don’t hog the blankets.”

He knows a losing battle when he sees one and starts to unlace his sneakers, resigned but incapable of not ribbing her in return at least a little, “And what if I was planning to steal them all for myself?”

“Then I’ll kick your ass out like you’ve been eating crackers,” she monotones, turning her back to him as he takes his shoes off and slides into the warm nest of blankets beside her.

“I’ll be good then,” he promises, putting his back against hers and draping his tail carefully over his thigh so that it would not touch her even in his sleep.

The break room is quiet, save for the humming of the vending machines' clockwork motors. The exhaustion that permeated his very essence only a moment ago has fled, and he feels painfully awake—as raw as an exposed nerve. He is only cognizant of the heat in his face and ears, the floral notes in her perfume, and the cool bottoms of her socked feet pressed flush against his calves. Her breathing is deep and even, but he is not sure if she is really asleep or just unusually still.

How can she just lay there like that when his whole body is on fire? When every onze of his blood thrummed wildly through his veins? When his heart beat in a frightening paroxysm of anxiety against the inside of his ribs—a exotic animal looking to slip its bonds and hunt freely?

The only explanation was that he had gone thoroughly and irredeemably mad.

He continues to struggle to sleep, mind abuzz, for what might be moons, or perhaps only moments, before he eventually succumbs to its comforting embrace.

* * *

"What in Tartarus is happening right now!? Did the two of you sleep here last night? And why _here_ of all places? ...Are you _dating_? It's the seventh bell of the morning!"

Groggy, Raha fights the heavy pull of sleep at the sound of Alisaie’s shocked rapid-fire questions. There is also a strange kind of low rumbling in his ears. Construction or something, perhaps, though how Alisaie got into his bedroom is more than a trifle concerning. He grunts in a noncommittal manner, thinking the issue will resolve itself, before settling back into a doze and tucking his chin into something soft and pleasant smelling. This new pillow in his arms is very nice indeed: warm and curved and…

“Don’t go back to sleep _idiot_. What are you and Stel doing _cuddling_ on the break room couch?”

Something whaps him on the shoulder, and his eyes spring open as the rumbling noise ceases abruptly. Awareness is slow to filter through his fried brain: the eventual embarrassment ballooning by several orders of magnitude for every moment wasted in the traffic jam of his thoughts.

Oh _gods_ was he? _He was_ —he had been purring in his sleep. And what did Alisaie say? Something about Stel? _By Apollo’s flaming di—Stel?!_

Stel is wrapped in his arms and pressed close to his side, one leg thrown across both of his while her arm circles his middle. She is deeply asleep, face pillowed on his shoulder, heliotrope hair wild and loose over his t-shirt. The top of her head bunts into his chin when he breathes and the tips of her velvet ears lightly brush his face. His tail has slithered around under the tangled mess of blankets and curled itself tightly around hers. In addition, he suspects that she might have drooled on him a little bit. How charming.

Alisaie hitting him with a rolled up newspaper has just ruined the best sleep he’d managed to enjoy in moons.

And he had a terrible feeling that he was going to end up paying dearly for it.

“We are _not_ dating. We got…. drunk, so we slept here,” he lies.

“ _Drunk_? On a work night? I’ve never heard such bullshit. Do you think I’m stupid?” There is a glint in Alisaie’s eyes that he has come to fear.

Alisaie Leveilleur, twenty summers old, along with her slightly older twin brother, Alphinaud, are part time pages and School of Library Sciences students at Mor Dhona University. Alisaie reminds Raha quite strongly of himself at that age: clever, rebellious, and willful. In contrast to her more straight laced brother, who prefers khakis, sweater vests, and bow ties, Alisaie is all ripped up jeans and band shirts, safety pins and pyramid studs. She sports multiple piercings on the edge of each elongated ear and keeps the right side of her head cropped close, the rest of her pure white hair falling over to the left all the way to the shoulder—usually dyed some unnatural color that makes the older patrons cluck their tongues.

He adores Alisaie—she is the younger sister he never had—but that does not blind him to the sort of gremlin-esque mischief she is capable of on a regular basis. Many of his co-workers also love Alisaie, some of them as deeply as if she were their own child, but it is well known among such a small and tight-knit group that the only way to get her to do what you want her to do is to give her something of equal value in return. Sort of a modern day faerie tale witch who will only allow you to escape with your dignity if you debase yourself by indulging her whims in exchange. The young elezen woman is possessed of a fearsomely pragmatic mind, one rivaled only by Rowena, the local cutthroat entrepreneur.

“What do you require for your silence, _my lady_?” he hisses, trying to keep from waking Stel, his ears burning in either shame or frustration. Perhaps both.

“Buy me lunch every day for a week,” she responds without the slightest hesitation, blue eyes glittering.

“Done. Now please go away.”

His instant acceptance of her terms gets him a raised white eyebrow, but no further comments as the elezen saunters out the break room door and closes it behind her.

Now comes the real battle: getting out of Stelmaria’s grasp before she wakes up so that he can pretend this whole thing never happened.

Then, he is going to need quite a lot of coffee—as black as the night and very, very hot.


	10. Interlude II - per fēlis

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Article | Talk

## Miqo’te

* * *

From Gubalpedia, the free encyclopedia.

**Miqo’te** are one of the races of Hydaelyn. They are superb fighters and hunters, possessing a keen sense of smell, compact but powerful frames, and a certain tenacity of spirit. In the past, only one tribe of Miqo’te—

<< _You scroll quickly, skimming the headings as they slide past your eyes—looking for the information you need._ >>

### Biology

<< _Ah, promising! You stop scrolling to read._ >>

All Miqo’te, like Hrothgar and Viera, experience a hormonal cycle for breeding purposes. The oestrus cycle of the female is known as a heat, while the male counterpart is a rut. In bonded pairs, one partner beginning a cycle will usually trigger the respective cycle in the mate. The timing of this cycle is poorly understood by outsiders, and varies a great deal between individuals—some never undergo even one cycle, while others may have multiple cycles over the course of their lives.

<< _How interesting… You file this information away in your mind for later._ >>

<< _Still, this doesn’t really answer your question. You did not have miqo’te friends, other than the one, and you could not very well ask THEM about what was plaguing you. >>_

 _< < You soldier on, reading fully rather than skimming—you don’t want to miss anything that might be helpful._ >>

### Culture

In ancient times, miqo’te spoke their own tongue and worshipped their own gods. Their culture was based around large families in a tribal setting, with the head of the family taking multiple spouses in an effort to consolidate power and swell the tribe’s numbers. Individual members primarily engaged in hunting for food and warring with other nearby peoples, whether they be miqo’te or another race entirely.

Modern Miqo’te still keep their ancient religious traditions and gods, but have willingly adopted the language and cultural mores of the rest of Eorzea. The majority of miqo’te no longer live in isolated tribal groups, but in small, stable families in the same way as any citizen of Eorzea born in recent memory.

With the advent of the Pax Eorzeana, Seekers have abandoned the practice of the tribe’s nunh taking multiple legal wives—though their religion allows for the custom. However, there are rumors of fringe groups of both tribes still openly practicing polygamy, despite it being made illegal for Eorzean citizens to have more than one legal spouse.

In the more recent past, Keepers have been unfairly labeled as antisocial, due to their fondness for the solitude of their original forest home and a fierce independent streak. Male Keepers, especially, have struggled to extricate themselves from this unhelpful stereotype—

<< _Again, fascinating, but not terribly applicable to your situation. >>_

<< _You would rather not have to ask a librarian for help—not because you were afraid of them. No, it was because there were three nearby and they were all miqo’te! How embarrassing…_ >>

<< _Determined, you keep scrolling, but your anxiety grows with every passing word and hope winks out entirely when you behold the next heading on the page._ >>

### Miscellanea

Seafaring legends maintain that miqo’te are lucky by nature, therefore every seaworthy vessel and its crew should have at least one on board.

* * *

<< _The rest of the article is trivia. With a sinking feeling, you realize you need to ask the staff for help._ >>

<< _The only librarians you can see are still the same three miqo’te from a moment ago: a Seeker female with her white hair in a bun, wearing a severe look and a pencil skirt; a redheaded Seeker male dressed in ripped jeans and a long scarf, sporting a goofy (if handsome) face, and who seems to be deep in conversation with the last of the trio; a female Keeper with vibrant purple hair in a messy ponytail, her face pinched in distaste and clad in a cardigan so large she could comfortably fit another person in it alongside her._ >>

<< _Even as you watch, the redhead laughs while the Keeper female only looks more sour. You decide it must be something he said as you turn away from them, steeling your nerves to approach the lone Seeker female instead so you can ask your reference question._ >>

<< _Then the nearby elevator opens, and a statuesque elezen woman with long blue-white hair walks out and relieves the white haired miqo’te at the reference desk. You make a beeline for her, saying a quick prayer of thanks to Fortuna for the opportunity to get out of this situation with at least some of your dignity intact._ >>

“Hi,” you begin, “Could you help me find something—,” pausing, you look surreptitiously for a name badge, “—Ysayle?”

“Of course,” she replies, “What do you need?”

“There’s this uh….. miqo’te I like,” you feel your face flushing as her eyes cut to the other two librarians, still engrossed in their chat, “and I would like to be a good partner, but I don’t know anything about miqos really, other than what everyone learns in school. Could you maybe recommend something on having a successful relationship with one?”

Ysayle smiles, and you feel a weight lift from your shoulders, “Of course. We have a whole section on relationships and another on miqo’te. Which would you like to visit first?”


	11. [II/Antistita] - part 1 | oblatio [EX]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antistita recto - intuitive, unconscious, inner voice
> 
> Finally. Finally, we are earning our explicit rating.
> 
> The second half of this has a [suggested soundtrack](https://youtu.be/xuF0vA4U8Ec)\--if you are so inclined.
> 
> This shit is about to get wild ya'll, and I am soooo excited!

Raha sits at his too-small desk in his too-large apartment, wondering what in Hydaelyn he is supposed to write in this journal. The words that suddenly appeared on the first page are still there, and no less unsettling for the passage of nearly a moon since he first secreted the book out of the _Prohibitorium_ without Stel’s knowledge.

**_Hello, my friend._ **

**_Long have I waited for you to find the journal so that we may speak in some manner. Pray, respond at your earliest convenience—I wish to hear tales of your adventures so far._ **

How do you respond to something like that? What does that even mean? Is the journal a consciousness unto itself? The very idea of a book writing itself is preposterous—and more than a little frightening. Or is it a tool being used by someone? Maybe they were merely curious about this strange tome they had found, like he was, and this is going to be a feverish underhanded exchange of notes in the back row of the classroom—the journal being a magickal sort of slam book?

Perhaps this is some elaborate ruse to trick him and abuse his powers?

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, but he has to admit, the book is an interesting twist.

Well, nothing was ever learned by sitting around and wringing one’s hands. He is a librarian, after all, and librarians fear no knowledge—it is not in their nature. They _are_ , however, cautious; he prepares to communicate by going to the kitchen to fetch salt (though it is unwarded, it’s better than nothing) and a cast iron pan—just in case.

Now if only he could have some salve for the pain he will inflict on himself by _writing_ in a library book like some kind of monster.

_Hello._

_Forgive my rudeness, but just who are you? I mean, who exactly am I speaking with?_

The reply is almost instantaneous, as though the someone or something on the other end had been on the edge of their seat for every moment of the intervening three weeks.

**_For now, suffice to say that I am a friend and not an enemy, though I realize that such statements should not be made without proof. What would you accept as testament to my noble intentions?_ **

Raha chews the butt end of his pen. This conversation is reminiscent of the one he had three moons ago in the supply closet with Stel, where she admitted to him that she had pried into his personal life with her alethiomancy, but then used that same ability to reassure him that she had no malice in her heart. She had impressed him then. He still finds her impressive.

_Tell me everything you think you know of me. I will be able to tell if you are lying._

**_When the tower dreams of you, I see your two red eyes in my own mind. I know that you are the tower’s master and its key as well as the Arcadian oracle, though I confess I am not sure what that entails–as it is a tradition that I am unfamiliar with._ **

His long, russet tail swishes behind him. The Arcadian oracle— _again_. How does the whole of Hydaelyn know something that is _supposed_ to be a Gryphon tribe secret? His parents had always enjoyed the status his position afforded them, but in all his thirty-two summers they had never been so free with the facts. He was quite certain they were the source of at least some of these leaks—nothing else really made sense. The next time they called to beg a favor (and he even bothered to answer) he was really going to have to put his foot down.

However, it is not the knowledge of his roles and titles that convinces Raha; it is that they know the color of his eyes and that the tower can _dream_. Only someone as intimately connected to the tower as he was could know such a thing—someone tied inextricably, all the way down to the genetic level, their very blood and bone resonating with its aether.

Whoever this person is, they are powerful and not to be trifled with.

New words appear on the page.

**_A word of advice, or mayhap a warning: we are the only two people that I know of who are able to open this book and read these pages._ **

Interesting. How could they know that?

_Alright, you’ve convinced me._

_I believe you to be harmless, but I reserve the right to change my mind. Why did you want to speak to me in the first place?_

**_Of course, you may change your mind at your leisure, my friend._ **

**_As for why I wanted to speak with you—I know that you will understand what I mean when I say that the tower wished for it to be so, though I am not sure why. As you are aware, it can be quite… enigmatic._ **

**_Was it a genuine attempt to alleviate my loneliness? Or perhaps it simply sought a diversion to help me pass the time? I doubt that either of us shall ever know for a certainty._ **

**_Forgive my ramblings, it has been some time since I engaged so freely in conversation on topics such as these. In any case, the little I have seen of your adventures, even second-hand as they are, have truly lightened my heart during these long years of solitude._ **

**_I would like to hear more. If you are amenable to humoring me, my friend?_ **

What could it hurt? He could put down his pen at any time, then cleanse the book with iron and salt before putting it back on the warded shelves of the _Prohibitorum_ —he could even go so far as to drop it in Silvertear Lake or burn it.

_Very well. What should I call you? What’s your name?_

**_My people have given me the title of Exarch and that will serve well enough for now. How shall I address you in turn?_ **

Exarch? What a dumb name—and so _obviously_ fake.

Well then, he certainly isn’t going to give this person his true name. Names have power, everyone knows that. A pseudonym would do—preferably something _badass_. His mind casts about, recalling a lifetime of half-forgotten snatches of story and song, real and imagined, before alighting on the religion of the Ishgardians.

For the rest of Eorzea, Ođinn and his cadre of Asgardians were simply legends adapted for the amusement of children. But to those who keep the living faith of Ishgard, they are complex and sometimes vengeful figures of power–as quick to protect and bless as they are to turn away or strike back. Raha is particularly fond of Ođinn himself: a god that thirsted endlessly for knowledge of all kinds. Ođinn had even gone so far as to remove his own eye and in the end, sacrificed himself to himself for the ability to work magick; magick that became the foundation for Ishgardian _galdr_ , the sort of power Stel used to activate her wayfinder charm.

Yes, one of Ođinn’s many kennings would do nicely.

_I am Grímnir._

* * *

Stelmaria dreams

of the tower and its

searing

azure

energy

blue

the color of his magick

or is it red?

it is both

but not at the same time

in her dream

in the tower

in _his_ tower

she goes veiled

many veils

so many veils

she can’t see

and has to be led by her hands

unsteady feet

fluttering heart

magick coils

waiting within

the heavy weight of the veils lifts

incremental

one at a time

one at a time

one at a time

one at a time

until

_**anakalypteria** _

a thing she has only read about

never seen

miqo’te tradition

an old one

she is naked underneath

strange

that’s not how it goes

brass torches burn bright in a darkened chamber

just outside the ring of light

hooded figures

masked

observers or participants

a chorus for a staged drama

she does not know her lines

her ignorance makes her afraid

anxious

smoke of mugwort and myrrh

confusing

marjoram and rosemary

in a crown upon her head

joy, remembrance, marital bliss, fidelity

dried fruit and nuts tossed carelessly

on the black marble floor

wishes for fertility

soft percussion

matching her rhythm

the passage of her blood along her veins

a man stands before her

hooded

a long black cloak

the final Herakles knot loosens

veil slipping from his fingers

and drifting to the marble

only sensual lips are visible

in the heavy shadows under the cowl

it’s him

him

G’raha Tia

G’raha

“Raha,” she breathes

his eyes glow crimson under the hood

living coals seeking to burn

her palms and face are red with wet paint

the same color as his eyes

his hair

blood

flame

pomegranates

love

the color of his tongue

in her mouth

tasting of sin

wine and

aether and

sex

she whimpers

dizzy

desirous

he reaches for the small of her back

the base of her tail

calloused ridges of his fingerprints

catch and hiss

touch like levin

bursts over her skin

raising gooseflesh

unconsciously

her hand finds his cheek

his bobbing throat

his broad shoulders

smearing paint

heedless

of any eyes upon her

save his

she is clasped hard to his chest

hearts galloping in sync

growling

low and feral

vibrates into her body

magick roils

searching

hungry

a cup

empty

the robe comes off over his head

gasps at his naked form

crystal

newly grown

streaked with paint

cerulean

shimmering

faceted

scintillating

his arm

his face

his chest

his thigh

blue

the rest tattooed

or pale and freckled

crimson hair unbound

past his shoulders

spoken length

hard and weeping

familiar eyes glowing blue

not red

how strange

he is beautiful

almost divine

crystalline Adonis escaped from his temple

she worships

enthralled

head dips to rest on the rainbow planes of him

leaves carmine behind

hands

wandering across his fractal topography

leaving scarlet behind

she kneels

mouth enveloping his heat

greedy for his favor

the gaze of the chorus

eggs her on

he moans in response

her long hair in his clenched fists

fragrant sharp notes of bruised marjoram

broken rosemary needles

mismatched hands tighten

tugging involuntarily on amethyst strands

at the movements of her teasing lips

“Kore”

her name

like song

like poetry

like legends

the drums chase after her leaping heart

matching her throbbing wetness

she lies on the marble

flesh of coalesced moonlight on midnight velvet sky

he joins her

all corded muscle

humming crystal

and slick crimson paint

kneels between her open legs

bites her neck

teeth sharp

kisses her breasts

mouth leaving bruises

grasps handfuls of her buttocks and hips

possessive

parts her sacred heat gently with his tongue

honey from the comb

veneration

obeisance made

he angles his hips

slides inside

smoothly

the wand entering the cup

magick quickens

aches

the gathering beyond the torches rustle their robes

but neither the bride nor the groom hear it

dedicating their coming battle to the gods

he spears her

claims her

legs upon his shoulders

Atlas bearing the weight of the world

his thrusts come slow

and deep

hips held so close and tight

bone grinds on bone

a heavenly stretching

an exquisite bottoming out

a delicious fullness

“Raha,” she breathes

painting herself with long strokes

he watches

fascinated by the mystery of her

drums keep time

the floor is unyielding

cold

friction keeps them

warm

they dance to their own rhythm

the dance that begins every life

they ride, like the gods ride a goði

divinity made flesh, flesh made divine

the same way Ođinn rode the tree

even as the tree rode Ođinn

knowledge kept secret

forbidden

they are aflame

with heated touch

and desire

with love

they will go up in smoke

disappear in a flash of heat and light

an offering to each other

and to the gods

old and new

sacred made profane before being consumed

let oblivion claim them

it matters not

it feels too good to stop

they will go together

the drums beat faster

he lifts her up

onto his lap

fixes her on his spear

crystal arm buzzing

cool

spoken arm warm

gentle

both hard like skysteel

breasts pressed flat against his cerulean chest

slick with sweat and red paint

her legs locked around his narrow waist

both his eyes crimson again

blown wide

drawn to hers

a moth to flame

a moon to its planet

a soul to its fate

her painted fingers twist in his scarlet hair

smooth the soft fur on the edges of his ears

his crystal digits find her swollen carmine mouth

slip inside

they fizz on her tongue

like champagne

bodies streaked in vermillion and crushed fertility blessings

writhing, rocking, grinding, howling

shameless as wild animals

tails entwine in a caduceus

the chorus join hands in silence

their presence forgotten

“Kore,” he sobs, trembling at the edge of a precipice

eyes closed

his forehead

feverish

against her neck

hot breath fanning across her collarbones

her name from his lips springs a trap inside her

a skein

unwinding

a tower

falling

a planet

disintegrating

a trap devised only for him

he becomes more her creature with every gasp of pleasure

every burning kiss etched on her skin

her lips

he is only hers

a branding

magick, nearly running over

the drums crescendo

each beat passing into the next

frenzied

the watchers perform a complicated dance of their own

circling the lovers

arms linked

steps synchronized

unremarked

unnoticed

her rolling hips press him inside

deeper

faster

arms bind him closer

he shudders against her

fingers in a bruising grip on her slick flesh

seeking purchase in the curves of her body

something is coming

and quickly

to devour

suddenly

it is upon them

and they cannot escape

her mouth opens

to scream

to cry out

but not in fear

her fangs meet in his spoken shoulder

blood runs freely

copper tang

a stutter in her motion

a gasping moan

even through his skin trapped in her mouth

the cup clenches tightly

onto

the wand

sparks like kindling

strikes the match

he groans

animalistic

guttural

raw

filling her belly

with a deep pulsing

hot

wet

creation begins

galaxies are born

sacred again

shivering down to their bones

lips against her throat

sweetly meandering across feverish skin

completely forgotten

the watchers cease their dance

raise their arms

and shout

“Αστέρι” he whispers, seeming awestruck

star, he names her

in the ancient language of their miqo’te ancestors

garnet eyes on hers

obsidian and amethyst

another kiss

resplendent with love

purring

deep in his chest

one last

slow

thrust

Αστέρι

* * *

She wakes with the force of her orgasm, muscles clamping down in blissful, rhythmic waves on a lover who is not there and never has been. A moan escapes her before she can shove her fist in her mouth to muffle it, hips undulating as her body weathers the sensations. Her breathing is fast and wild, bedsheets tangled in her legs, nightshirt sticking to her with clammy sweat.

A knock on her door, “You ok?”

Fighting hard to keep her voice steady she answers, still a bit overstimulated, “Yes, I’m fine Haurchefant.”

Silence, then a pointed, “If you say so. Don’t be late for work—there’s coffee in the pot and your lunch is in the fridge.” Her brother sounds unconvinced, to put it mildly.

His footsteps retreat down the hall, followed by the sound of the front door closing with his exit.

Finally, her breathing and pulse is normal. She can think.

What was that? Not that she didn’t enjoy it, because she did. _Very much._

But just— _what was that_?? G’raha covered in crystal, like the tower, but with glowing eyes of the wrong color. Actually, were they the wrong color? She can’t really remember. The details of the dream are already getting fuzzy.

There was a wedding? Yes, a traditional miqo’te one, but with the red painted bride customary at modern Eorzean weddings. And strange, so strange… like a public ritual. Or a sacrifice. Blood and flame and offerings. Magick and quasi-religious mysticism.

She shudders, resolving to never polish off a whole pint of ice cream before bed ever again. And she has to admit, it is well past time to have her silphium charm renewed and to get herself a boyfriend. Or a friend with benefits. A new vibrator, even. Something. ANYTHING.

Because celibacy is most definitely not working out for her.


	12. [II/Antistita] - part 2 | prandium invitatio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antistita verso - repressed intuition, hidden motives, superficiality, confusion, cognitive dissonance
> 
> First of all, I am pleased to show you some **official** , yes _official_ , ex libris artwork--courtesy of my husband. It's on his Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/NoJohnny5ive/status/1344338377584373762?s=20).
> 
> _IT'S BEAUTIFUL! The perks of being married to an artist._
> 
> CW: There’s a joke in here where someone (teasingly) is implied to be a pedophile.
> 
> He’s not.
> 
> As I said, it’s a joke and she knows it’s a bad one. I just want to put it out there at the beginning in case someone would rather skip this chapter because of it--which is totally ok!!

It’s her day off, her brother is at work, and Stelmaria is engaging in research for her next novel. As usual, it has devolved into her napping heavily in her favorite overstuffed living room chair. The romance novel she was _researching_ lays open over the arm of the recliner, the dashing looking elezen on the cover seems to rest his smoldering gaze on the tuxedo cat sunning itself across the room. In her dream, that very elezen is ripping the bodice of her ridiculous dress as they canoodle in the captain’s quarters aboard his pirate ship.

The elezen, who looks a great deal like Estinien and rather less like the cover artwork, is running his lips over the leaping pulse at her throat with some heat as he murmurs sweet nothings against her skin. How she is more lovely than the sight of a hold full of grog. How she has pierced his heart more keenly than a sea dog’s cutlass. How he feels lightheaded under her gaze as though he’s come down with a case of scurvy. His calloused hand traces up her smooth ribs, then skirts around the heavy swell of her breast to—

There’s a buzzing noise. And another. Then three more in rapid succession.

She wakes, blinking owlishly in the afternoon light as it glares through the gauzy patio curtains. Only a dream, thank the gods, though the Estinien bit _was_ strange. Yes, they worked together now (she in bibliomancy and he in adult services), but it had been nearly a full decade since they last dated. Actually, she is pretty sure he and Ysale are having a low-key interdepartmental relationship.

Maybe she’ll tell him about her dream the next time she saw him—she loved him like yet another brother and he would probably find it funny, rather than embarrassing. It was hard to be embarrassed about things like that around someone you used to sleep with on the regular.

Conscious enough to remember the noises she heard, she stumbles around piles of books and stacks of left over flattened moving boxes on the floor looking for her phone, before finding it on the kitchen charger. She really should just start checking there first—maybe next time she’ll actually remember.

The notifications and attendant buzzes are from the LinkShell app: someone not on her friends list has been messaging her. Repeatedly. She accepts the friend request and laughs out loud when she realizes who they are from.

_KillerGee:_ Hey Stelmaria?

 _KillerGee:_ It’s G’raha.

 _KillerGee:_ I got your linkpearl name from Lyse…

 _KillerGee:_ I hope you don’t mind?

 _KillerGee:_ I’m sorry you are probably busy.

_eyes_like_stars:_ nah my phone was on the charger

 _eyes_like_stars:_ whats up?

 _eyes_like_stars:_ are you serious with that pearlname? loool

_KillerGee:_ Nothing in particular. I need an excuse to talk to you?

 _KillerGee:_ What’s wrong with my p/n?

 _KillerGee:_ I’ve had it since high school.

_eyes_like_stars:_ i can tell

_KillerGee:_ Being a G isn’t cool anymore? Neither is being a Killa?

 _KillerGee:_ See it’s like killer bee, but gee. Because G tribe. And gangsters.

 _KillerGee:_ You mean I’m not clever? Or cool?

 _KillerGee:_ All this time and no one thought to tell me. Rude.

_eyes_like_stars:_ rofl

 _eyes_like_stars:_ i have no idea what the kids think is cool

 _eyes_like_stars:_ but i can tell you with certainty that you are not cool red

 _eyes_like_stars:_ and it’s frankly even less cool when you explain it

_KillerGee:_ WHAT!

 _KillerGee:_ NO!?

_eyes_like_stars:_ we’re librarians. we’re in our 30s. we’re not cool m8

_KillerGee:_ My gods. I’m a dork. And a nerd. A square.

 _KillerGee:_ My life is flashing before my eyes.

 _KillerGee:_ I’m reconsidering every decision I’ve ever made.

 _KillerGee:_ I don’t know where I went wrong.

 _KillerGee:_ My mother was right—I would eventually regret being an emo kid.

_eyes_like_stars:_ emo kid huh? why am i not surprised

 _eyes_like_stars:_ just get a new pn and see where that takes you

 _eyes_like_stars:_ kiddylover? you like kids right?

_KillerGee:_ Omgs how is that BETTER?!

_eyes_like_stars:_ uhhh

 _eyes_like_stars:_ childfancy?

 _eyes_like_stars:_ readstoyourkids_inanotcreepyway?

 _eyes_like_stars:_ i got it

 _eyes_like_stars:_ askmeabout_luringkids_intoreading

_KillerGee:_ I want to be cool, not get arrested.

 _KillerGee:_ >_<

 _KillerGee:_ You’re not helping at all.

_eyes_like_stars:_ xddd im sorry i couldnt help it

 _eyes_like_stars:_ very very bad taste i know

 _eyes_like_stars:_ forgive me, im an ass :D

_KillerGee:_ If you promise to be legitimately helpful and not insinuate that I am a criminal…

 _KillerGee:_ We could brainstorm my new p/n over dinner?

_eyes_like_stars:_ dinner? where?

_KillerGee:_ I was thinking about this Hannish curry place…?

 _KillerGee:_ You’re still hopelessly broke even with Haurchefant paying half the bills aren’t you?

 _KillerGee:_ I’m not surprised. I’m his boss, I know how much he makes.

 _KillerGee:_ I wouldn’t invite you if I wasn’t buying, Stel.

_eyes_like_stars:_ ok. i could eat if its gonna be free

 _eyes_like_stars:_ just try not to let anyone see what a dork you are

 _eyes_like_stars:_ i have my own reputation to think about alright?

 _eyes_like_stars:_ people cant know i hang out with my nerdy coworker sometimes

_KillerGee:_ Look.

 _KillerGee:_ I’ll try.

 _KillerGee:_ But I can’t promise it won’t slip out that I’m a stone cold G.

 _KillerGee:_ It’s difficult to keep that sort of thing to yourself. I mean, people have a right to know.

 _KillerGee:_ Like whether or not there’s a doctor on the airship?

 _KillerGee:_ There might be an emergency situation that can only be resolved by a G.

 _KillerGee:_ Curry emergency, perhaps?

_eyes_like_stars:_ omgssssss plz no

 _eyes_like_stars:_ just stop talking

 _eyes_like_stars:_ ill see you there in a bell?

 _eyes_like_stars:_ red?

 _eyes_like_stars:_ oh no youre going to make me say it arent you

 _eyes_like_stars:_ ……killergee? ugh i hate it so much…..

_KillerGee:_ LOL no you told me to stop talking. So I did.

 _KillerGee:_ But I’ll take it in any case.

 _KillerGee:_ See you in a bell.

She laughs, in spite of herself, but frowns a moment later and opens the chat app on her phone—ignoring the ping of G’raha sending the address of the restaurant through the LS app.

* * *

**> > bertie bro**

bertie what does it mean when a gay guy asks you to dinner?

_how am i supposed to know mar?_

_you are aware that i am not gay right? you should be asking haurchefant_

_at least haurchefant is bi_

_dude’s probably just hungry anyway_

* * *

**> > haurchie boo**

haurchie what does it mean when a gay guy asks you to dinner?

_im at work…_

_also who is “you”?_

im “you”. me your precious and most favorite sister

a gay guy asked me to dinner.

_you’re my only sister tho_

_lol he’s just hungry and/or lonely_

adshdsgajd that’s what bertie said

_or is this mystery individual secretly not actually gay?_

_and therefore blind_

_and deaf_

_got to be if he seriously wants to be your man_

stfu, ass

_fr why would you ask bertie, he’s not even gay?_

I KNOW SHUT UP DAMN

_hey_

_since this thing isnt a date because of the whole gay thing_

_give him my number would you?_

you want to date your boss?

_wait_

_wat_

_g’raha tia asked you to dinner?_

_o fuck o shit o lady freyja preserve me_

WHAT

_fucking_

_I’m dying ashdafsghsdj_

WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT

_ok i have to nope out of this conversation to protect the innocent_

HAURCHEFANT GREYSTONE DE FORTEMPS

_byeeeee_

_love you don’t do anything i wouldn’t do_

I WILL PUT YOUR SHIT OUTSIDE BUT I WILL KEEP YOUR CATS

FUCK YOU

* * *

What *is* it with these people today? So unhelpful.

Sighing, she gets up to brush her teeth and then feeds the Furies their dinners before they can start meowing loudly and getting underfoot. When Haurchefant came home later he was going to want to be able to feed himself, not trip over three silly cats greedy for a meal. Of course, that wouldn’t really stop them. She writes a note in capital letters and sticks it to the fridge with a magnet: **FURIES ARE FED. IF THEY CRY, THEY LIE.**

Livestock satiated for the time being, she debates the merits of changing out of her favorite sweatshirt before setting off: a hot pink number with embroidered kittens gamboling across it after balls of yarn. The neck is so large that her shoulder always seems to slip out of it, baring an expanse of pale skin and a brightly colored bra strap—today is fire engine red—to anyone who happens to be looking.

Though no one is going to be looking, she decides, and chooses to leave her shirt as it is, along with the plain black yoga pants she’d dozed in like a contented house cat all day. As for her hair…

She grimaces at the disheveled mess on the crown of her head: a lopsided pile of aubergine locks, seeming to hang onto the barest semblance of structure by the grace of the gods alone.

That wouldn’t do at all. Besides, she needs to wear a helmet to ride the Malboro and buns—even terribly sloppy ones—could get uncomfortable. It would have to go loose down her back, but she certainly wasn’t going to brush it or anything.

Again, why should she? She is simply going to a hole-in-the-wall curry place to have a pleasant dinner with a coworker who happens to be gay and who is not the least bit interested in her sexually. There is no need to impress with the sheer force of her animal magnetism when the audience is unreceptive. Best to just stick with the basics: deodorant on, clothes clean (if a bit slept in), teeth brushed, lip gloss applied, riding boots, sweatshirt pocket check for the holy trinity (phone, wallet, keys), and out the door.

The Malboro sits outside in the lot; a gleaming hunk of black and silver, low slung and as dangerous looking as a predator, covered in artistic hot pink and lime green striping, with tinted ceruleum bulbs secured to the machine’s undercarriage. Helmet on, she turns the starter and it purrs under her—the engine and the lurid pink and green underglow coming to life simultaneously. It is her pride and joy, a gift from her most recent ex boyfriend, and her second favorite hobby after writing.

Her second favorite because it gives her time to think, which is not always what she wants to do. But for the short ride to the curry restaurant, a little time to herself is quite welcome.

To be honest, it is a relief that G’raha is uninterested in her even _if_ he had recently starred in some unusual dreams of the horny variety… but thankfully, those were becoming less frequent. Seemingly, buying a new vibrator had been the correct move, and the reapplication of her silphium charm was doing wonders for her peace of mind. If, by the direct intervention of some god perhaps, she managed to hook herself a willing partner within the next six moons at least she would not be catching an illness or falling pregnant. It had been years since her last heat and most likely she would go into one very soon after taking someone to bed, regardless of whether it was _true love_ nonsense or simply attraction.

She is aware that G’raha has no true siblings, but he does have a few half-siblings and no small amount of cousins. Perhaps he could be convinced to fix her up with one of them? Though she had never been with a Seeker before—only the one Keeper and a few elezens, who didn’t have to deal with heats or ruts. The idea cheers her, as does seeing him already seated at a table near the front window when she pulls into the lot. He hasn’t noticed her, engrossed as he is in something on his phone that has his face scrunched into a frown. Losing a game, most likely.

The very same afternoon sun that blazed into her sensitive eyes after her nap treats him gently, settling over his hair and transmuting it from plain red into bright copper. If she were describing the scene in one of her bodice-ripper novels she would use the word _sun-kissed_ : his skin glows with warmth, freckles standing out on that perfect pale canvas. Her strange dream surfaces again for a moment, bringing with it a sort of longing—the muddled memory of his muscled body sliding under her hands and the heady taste of him in her mouth.

Pity it wasn’t real. Therefore the reality was probably nothing like her dreams, not that she would ever find out.

_But!_

There’s another nice thought: surely most of his family looked like him? Even if it wasn’t serious, a heat was so much more fun with someone who knew what they were doing. If any of the Gryphon tribe looked like him they had probably been around the block enough to be decent at… _things_. She removes her helmet and secures the Malboro before going inside to join him with an obvious spring in her step, plans uncoiling in her fertile imagination.


	13. [II/Antistita] - part 3 | prior amator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antistita recto - intuition, sacred knowledge, divine feminine, the subconscious mind
> 
> Cw: A little voyeurism here, but due to unfortunate circumstances and not malice. To be fair, they’re _kind_ of in public.
> 
> Tropes are tropes for a reason. And the reason is that they are awesome.

Raha’s two bells at the Welcome Desk have passed without incident.

So far.

He is daydreaming about getting Stel to come on another trip into the Prohibitorum tonight after closing, when an absolute giant of a gray-skinned miqo’te strides in the front door of the library. The man casts around looking for something, before settling directly on Raha far across the blue and white mosaic floor. A near decade of library work has allowed him to recognize a potential problem when he sees one; it just takes a moment to apply his customer service smile in preparation.

Only for his brain to become as empty as Zeus’ marital vows when the unknown Keeper asks a simple question upon arriving at the desk, “Where’s Stel?”

Raha blinks as though waking from sleep, very distracted by the quantity of large fangs on display in front of him, “Sorry?”

His mouth is suddenly dry. _So dry._

It is said that life is a journey of self discovery. Today, Raha is discovering that he is a fan of sharp fangs resting on plump bottom lips in general, not just Stel’s specifically.

The Keeper, who must be only a couple ilms short of a full six fulms, narrows his green eye in suspicion (a mess of unruly black hair with the ends dyed neon green flops over the other eye) and crosses a sinewy pair of heavily tattooed arms over a well-muscled chest. Raha knows the chest in question is well-muscled because it is quite discernible through a tank top made of fishnet, worn over—no joke—skintight leather pants. The man smells of hot metal and motor oil, wild and feral.

Raha’s pulse quickens at the scent, idiot heart thrumming in his ears. The rational part of his mind is appalled at the thirsty lizard-like part of his brain, the part that is currently screaming that it’s been _moons_ since he got laid.

“Stel? She works here,” the larger miqo’te huffs while looking around, clearly hoping to get the attention of someone _less_ clueless.

“I don’t know anyone by that name. Is there something that I could help you with instead?” Raha lies. The Seeker keeps his tone light and easy, hoping to give the impression he _isn’t_ hanging on the Keeper’s every word.

That piercing green eye swings back in his direction, “Can I leave these flyers with you then? My band’s having a show next week and I’m hoping it’ll sell out… HEY WEDGE!?”

Raha can’t get another word out before the stack of papers is dropped unceremoniously on the desk and the giant miqo’te bounds over to the nearest clockwork elevator, where joint First Engineer Wedge is trying to push a cart easily twice his size and full of greasy brass machine parts back towards the engineering department. When the excited miqo’te overtakes him, Wedge looks a little embarrassed but then grateful to have some help in moving the heavy parts.

The pair obviously know each other, falling into hushed conversation as the mystery miqo’te takes over the cart. They disappear past the swinging doors, and Raha has his first opportunity to look down at the black and white flyers. A crude drawing of a tonberry with a mohawk clutching a large dripping knife stares aggressively back at him:

| 

**THE SEX TONBERRIES! LIVE AT THE RISING STONES!**

**BIG BIG PUNK SHOW**

**ad pr. Id. 5th AM 2020 PE**

**FREE PARKING!**

**TWO DRINK MINIMUM!**

**DON’T MISS IT!**  
  
---|---  
  
Around what he assumes is the eponymous sex tonberry are letters clipped from newspapers and pasted in order to spell out the words of the ad. The whole mess has then been crookedly xeroxed into near illegibility. A punk show? It certainly explained the Keeper’s outfit.

At that exact moment Lyna, the Head of Circulation, arrives to relieve him from desk duty. He barely acknowledges the viera in his rush to find Stelmaria before the other miqo’te does, bustling past her and around the end of the desk to get to an elevator, but he hears her question echoing after him, “What in Tartarus is a sex tonberry??”

“No idea,” he calls back with a helpless shrug, just as the gate closes on Lyna’s perplexed expression.

If he is remembering the schedule correctly—which is difficult since the clicking of the elevator’s mechanisms is irritating rather than soothing right now—Stelmaria should be making rounds and shelving as needed on the 45th level. The doors open on the right floor and he moves straight to the back; she has a preference for shelving as far away from the elevators and therefore, the patrons, as she can get.

Were he pressed, he doubts he could express why he felt it so necessary to find her before the Keeper man did, but something just doesn’t feel right. He would prefer not to dwell on things like _intention_ , and just acts on instinct—consequences be damned.

He turns a corner and sees them, becoming overwhelmed with regret that he even bothered to get out of bed this morning.

The other miqo’te is caging Stelmaria, lustily pressing her into the tall stacks with his not at all inconsequential bulk. The Keeper’s big, dark-skinned hands support the long pale legs cinched around his middle. The short black plaid dress she’s wearing— _was_ wearing?—is rucked up almost to her hips with the top four or five buttons undone, exposing a bra the exact same blue as the tower. Stel is panting, open-mouthed and eyes closed, head thrown back as the man runs his lips and tongue over her pale throat, kissing feverishly under her jaw and across the tattooed skin at the tops of her breasts.

Breasts that Raha has not seen before this point, since they are _only_ friends and Stel has never been so… _disheveled_ in his presence. The few times he’d had to heal her cuts and burns during their outings she’d been perfectly calm about his hands on her skin—not a blush or even a demure look. He seemed to have no effect on her whatsoever.

This is apparently different.

Stunned, he watches mesmerized as she puts her own fingers in her mouth to stifle a moan, but the two men hear it anyway. They both would have heard it as clear as a bell if she had moaned in a sealed room a full malm away, even if the room had walls five fulms thick. The Keeper, who can only be Stel’s ex boyfriend, hears it because he is attuned to her body in a way that Raha is not; he feels the desires of his mate as a primal, visceral need that only he can fulfill—every miqo’te instinctually understands this principle. Her moan prompts the man to pull her fingers from her mouth and pin them behind her head, against the shelf, while his other hand moves up under her dress, skimming over creamy skin flushed pink with excitement.

Raha hears her because he is single, horny, and miserably _lonely_. Observing them together is an exercise in frustration, a reminder of everything he doesn’t have— _can’t_ have. The only person that can touch him without making him flinch asked just last week over curry if he would mind finding her a fuckbuddy amongst his cousins. Currently, she is whimpering quietly with desire while another man sucks a hickey onto the soft expanse of flesh at her neck with considerable vigor. He wants to pin his ears to his head with his hands and shut his eyes, but that wouldn’t block out anything; he’d probably see it burned onto the inside of his eyelids and hear it in his dreams.

Something bitter inside him burns. He bites the inside of his mouth to stifle it, the pain of teeth meeting in his flesh jolts him to awareness—not only is he at work, he is _staring like an idiot_ at an intimate situation he has no business looking at. _Gods preserve_.

Thinking quickly, Raha ducks back behind a nearby range still unseen, thanking every god on Olympus for their mercy while his heart hammers a wild rhythm against his ribs at the close call. It felt like an eternity in the heat of the moment, but in reality his gross breach of consent only lasted a few seconds. Lucky indeed.

Except now he is stuck.

And he can _still_ hear them.

Voyeurism was not on his to-do list for today. It was mortifying enough that he’d been rooted to the spot, goggling slack-jawed at the pair of them necking, but now he has to listen to them pillow talk while ignoring a belly filled with hot vinegar. Maybe it is for the best? He might need to rescue her if it turns out the man’s attentions are unwanted.

“Are you rut-addled Fel? Someone will see us…” her voice is breathy but also colored with just a touch of what Raha suspects is irritation. He has certainly heard it directed at him often enough. Perhaps this is not an idyllic reunion? All the more reason to stay.

A possessive growl, “And what if it is a rut? Would you help me with it?”

“As fun as that might be—I could get fired for this, idiot.”

A muffled laugh, as if Fel’s mouth is pressed against her skin or hair, “Fuck that shit, just quit. I’ll take care of you when the band makes it—”

“Fel,” she hisses, cutting him off. It was _definitely_ irritation, but she does not sound angry enough yet to make him drop her. “The band has been _about_ to make it for 3 frigging years now. It’s never happening.”

The Keeper man does something that causes her to yelp and pant, then hiss again. Raha, to his lasting shame, is consumed with morbid curiosity, stealthily moving a few nearby tomes to the side so he can see through his set of shelves and into the next row over.

Fel bit her on the throat.

The nerve of this man is staggering. Frankly, Raha is impressed that he can do such a thing to Stel and live to tell the tale. The mark is a vivid red against her moon pale skin, its intensity matched only by the sharpness of the stare she is giving the culprit.

Who is totally oblivious, muttering between kisses he applies to the edge of one of her purple ears, making it flutter away from him, “Just take me back. Come to the show next week and hear the song I wrote for you.”

Raha ducks down again in time to avoid being seen when her gaze roves over the book spines he was just peeking through. He is uncharacteristically lucky today, which means it _will_ run out soon. Discretion is the name of the game now, so he stays as low as he can and continues eavesdropping.

“A song? You never wrote me a song before…” Her tone is heavy with suspicion.

Fel chuffs warmly. “Yea baby. I love you. It’s destiny, you know? We’re meant to be together, our names even rhyme—Fel and Stel. G’raha and Stel don’t rhyme, it’s not even close.”

How in the name of Hades did he get dragged into this mess?

“ _Why_ are you talking about G’raha?” Bless her.

“I saw you with that Seeker nerd at the King’s a couple moons ago during my shift, and earlier he was downstairs at the desk with his dorky name tag on. He lied to me and said he didn’t know you—but I’m not _that_ stupid.”

 _Nerd?!_ Raha was a nerd, undeniably so. _But still… A dork too? So damn rude._

Stel makes an affronted noise at these accusations on his behalf; he should get her something really nice for her nameday, not that he knows when her nameday is—but he’ll find out. “What? He’s—I’m not—” she sputters, losing some points in the confidence department.

_Oh well, she tried. It’s the thought that counts._

A low rumble issues from the Keeper that Raha has to furiously swivel his ears to catch, “Do you wanna play hide the sausage? That used to be your favorite game.”

Raha tries and fails to smother an involuntary snort, before succumbing to blind panic. _She probably heard that. I’m so fucked._

Her voice is strained, “When the Phlegethon freezes over, idiot. Put me down, please, I withdraw my consent.”

“Ok,” a rustling of fabric before the Keeper’s broad back appears for a moment at the end of the range, “Love you. See you at the show, babe.”

Fel retreats back to the elevators with no further protests and Raha breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps Fel’s unwitting cooperation will put her in a good enough mood to earn Raha a stay of execution.

“Who’s over there laughing at my expense?” Stelmaria demands. _No dice_.

He knew his luck would run out at some point; he deserved whatever punishment he got. “It’s me, sorry. I swear I am not a pervert—I just couldn’t make a clean getaway,” he admits sheepishly, peeking around the end of the shelf at her with his ears flattened in remorse.

She attempts to relax the fur on her tail and straighten her dress, which is buttoned up again at least, “How much of that did you hear exactly?”

“Uhhhh… I came in about the time you thought you’d get fired if you got caught.” It is difficult to hold a conversation when you are actively trying to avoid looking at the person you are speaking to. A person with love bites all over her neck. He’d riled her up before with his teasing, but he had no idea she could be _so_ embarrassed.

“All of it then. Shit, I’m sorry you had to hear that. Any of that,” she mutters with smoothing her hair, before suddenly reaching to grab at his arm, eyes wide with apprehension, “Did he leave a—?” she asks, gesturing to her throat.

In answer, he hands her the scarf he wore today—a simple black one edged in golden thread, “He did. It’s pretty bad.” Raha is not exaggerating: the biggest mark is at least a couple ilms across at the widest point and rapidly turning an ugly mottled purplish-red.

“Thanks,” she sighs in relief, winding the scarf around her neck for coverage, “I’ll put a salve on it when I get home. Maybe it’ll be gone tomorrow but with my luck I’ll probably need to borrow this for a couple days… if that’s ok?”

“Sure that’s fine. Listen, are you alright? Who was that anyway?” He already knows, but he wants to hear it from her own mouth.

Stelmaria laughs at him, “Jealous, Red?” He only has a moment to mentally flail about like a fish caught on the line before she explains, sparing his dignity somewhat, “Felcy’ra is my ex boyfriend, as of eight moons past.”

He does the math in his head: her relationship ended three moons before his own move to Mor Dhona and subsequent first day at the library. He had weathered the implosion of a long-term relationship around the same time, but truthfully it had been a while since he’d even thought of his ex—too busy with his new job and mastering the tower, something he’d avoided for far too long. No doubt the Garlean man had moved on to trying to control someone else’s life and abilities. Good riddance.

“And he said he saw us at the King’s?” he prompts, pushing away intrusive thoughts of a pair of golden eyes, summoned as if by magick.

“Probably that night a couple moons ago when we dealt with the coeurl. He’s been working there during the slow hours in the back because he’s not allowed to help the customers or work the register, but I didn’t think… I should have realized.” She looks so charming, chewing on her bottom lip with her ears laid back in distress.

Raha can’t help himself; he just has to ask, “So if he’s your _ex_ and it’s really over—then why—?”

Now she blushes, color blooming across her cheeks and down her throat, making the marks not covered with his scarf look worse, “It’s been a long time for me and I’m—I just—”

She goes even redder, avoiding his eyes and trying heroically to get a little shelving done before the bell is up.

“—This is why you want a fuckbuddy isnt it?” he clarifies, realization dawning.

She nods, lips a grim slash across her mortified expression.

“I’ll talk to my cousins,” he lies. Her relief is palpable in the small space they are sharing between the tall shelves. “In the meantime you should do something really crazy: take someone to his show next week and spend the whole night pretending to drunkenly make out in a corner where he can see,” Raha quips, half joking, but mostly attempting to further lighten the mood.

She stares at him as if he is a completely new creature to her: a revelation straight from the divine, accompanied by a celebratory strumming of Orpheus’ lyre or perhaps a stirring performance by the full complement of Muses, “You’re a dude, Red.”

He glances down at himself, tail swaying in amusement and mouth a smirking line, “ _NO_? What?! You can’t be serious, Stel—I had no idea. You’ve changed my life.”

“But you _are_. And Fel already thinks we’re…. You should come with me to the show,” she decides with finality, checking her watch before turning on her heel to march towards the elevator with her half-shelved cart of books, leaving him behind.

Raha’s mind reels at this sudden turn of events. He can only surmise that he’s been cursed by the whims of a capricious god; Stelmaria Molkot just asked him on a date? This woman has gone mad.

Well, never let it be said that Raha of the Gryphon tribe was one to look a gift chocobo in the mouth.

Moving into a jog, he manages to cross the level and join her in the elevator just as the door closes, “Alright, I’ll go with you, on the condition that you’re buying my drinks.”

“But the first Ides of the Fifth Astral Moon is _my_ nameday. People are supposed to buy _me_ drinks,” she pouts, purple tail twitching behind her as the elevator clicks into gear and begins to sink.

Incredulity is plain on his face, “Your _nameday?_ Your ex’s band is performing in a punk show on your nameday where he intends to sing a song he wrote for you in a misguided attempt to get you back? That’s showing some initiative, I must admit—the man has serious gall.”

“Red…” she groans, “please don’t compliment him. I don’t think I can handle it. Besides, I’m not actually all that sure he realizes that the show is on my nameday.”

“Your ex doesn’t know your nameday? Why am I not surprised. Anyway, I’m going to need those drinks you’re buying if I’m going to survive the auditory onslaught that is The Sex Tonberries, nameday or not,” he deadpans, before laughing aloud at the abject misery obvious in every line of her expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art is once again the fruit of my husband's labors. Follow his [Twitter](https://twitter.com/NoJohnny5ive).

**Author's Note:**

> Subscribe to me on AO3 or follow me on Twitter to receive publishing updates! xoxo Mal
> 
> Twitter: [@The_Malacoda](https://twitter.com/The_Malacoda)  
> Tumblr: [amor vincit omnia](https://themalacoda.tumblr.com/)


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